#Someone asked about the paintbrush ONCE and I tried to be vague about it - that Noir didn't FIND any side effects... | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

kieraelieson · 4 years ago

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Three Times Patton Got Lost in a Market

Thomas was walking through the old store with his mom, careful to hold her hand while they shopped.

“Oh, look! There’s a wind chime! It’s just like the nice neighbor lady!” Patton said.

Thomas stopped to look, and his mom stopped too, looking at something else across the aisle.

“It isn’t exactly the same,” Logan said. “Hers has a hummingbird on top, but this one has a butterfly.”

“And anyway, this one has prettier colors when the light hits it,” Roman added.

“Oooh, the red really is pretty, Roman!” Patton said excitedly. “And the purple, and the yellow!”

“It’s exactly the colors of the most beautiful rainbow reflecting back from a pot of gold,” Roman said dreamily.

“Mom!” Virgil suddenly shrieked, alerting them all to the fact that Thomas’s mom was no longer beside them.

Instantly, there was a pandemonium of overlapping voices, all very confusing, and Virgil at the front screaming.

“Quiet!” Patton yelled, as loud as he could, and then felt a little like crying. He didn’t like yelling, but this was important!

“But we have to find Mom!”

“We should run after her!”

“If we yell someone will hear!”

“Listen to me!” Patton yelled again. “Remember what Mom said? If we get lost in the store we stay put, and if we see an employee then we ask them to call mom for us.”

Virgil bit down hard on his sleeves, and Patton took his silence for agreement.

“That is indeed what Thomas was told,” Logan admitted.

“I still think we should go find her!” Roman protested, though less pointedly than before.

Thomas plopped down on the floor.

“Ok. That settles it, we’re waiting for mom,” Patton said. “Let’s look for more pretty things while she comes to get us. Roman, what else can you see around us that looks like a rainbow?”

Roman grumpily crossed his arms. “There’s a rainbow on the lawn decoration.”

“Very good!” Patton said. “Logan, can you see anything that’s science-accurate?”

“Science-accurate is a very vague phrase, but I suppose you could be intending to direct me to the collection of decorative barometers.”

“Oooh~ yes, the water swan neck thingies~” Roman said.

Logan launched into an explanation of barometers, most of which Patton didn’t understand.

He checked on Virgil, who was scanning the aisle they were in over and over again, and chewing holes in his poor sleeves.

“She’ll be here in just a minute, don’t worry,” Patton said gently.

Virgil nodded slightly, but didn’t stop checking the ends of the aisle and staring down each person that passed.

And then his eyes went wide. Patton turned to look.

“Mom!”

“Thomas, I thought I lost you for a minute there! Stay close, ok?”

Thomas took his mother’s hand and nodded.

Patton let out a sigh of relief. They weren’t lost anymore.

••^*^••

Thomas was a bit worried about high school, and especially the test coming up, and Logan and Virgil were mostly helping him with that. But now he had to go to the store for groceries. And Roman was exhausted after being all excited over the play and was sound asleep.

So Patton was helping shop!

He smiled confidently, prompting Thomas to look at the list again. He needed to get the ingredients for tacos, and some bread, milk, eggs, and ice cream. Yum!

Now what all went into tacos?

There was meat, and sour cream, and little shredded lettuce, and cheese, and taco shells, or was he supposed to get soft tortillas?

Patton considered, wandering into the store towards the food. Maybe both? Yeah. Both. Oh! And there was the bread! That would probably have tortillas near it!

Patton hummed happily, finding the bread that looked the same as what mom had been getting, noting the brand name. Nature’s Own. Huh.

Now tortillas… what kind did they normally get?

He finally just picked the one that had blue on the label.

Virgil popped up, startling him for a moment, especially with his intense frown. “People are staring. We’re taking too long near the bread, and your humming is gonna make people think Thomas is weird.”

“Oh, it’s alright!” Patton said cheerfully, glad he hadn’t dropped the tortillas. “I didn’t get in anyone’s way, and they haven’t said anything yet about thinking Thomas is weird.”

“Yeah…” Virgil glared at the people milling around and shopping. “Well they could. Just… keep it quiet.”

“Will do!” Patton grinned, and Virgil sunk back out.

Next he had to find… well, next he had to find the next thing. Should he keep walking and hope to see them, or should he seek each one out? He’d stumbled upon the bread, surely he would stumble across the rest.

Patton hummed happily and kept walking, skipping along beside the cart as Thomas pushed it. Thomas must really be out of it, poor guy. But Patton could help him cheer up!

Pretty soon, they had almost everything! Except for taco seasoning. And Patton wasn’t sure if they were supposed to get the kind that was in packets, or the actual spices. And he also wasn’t sure whether he should look in the spices area or the Mexican food area. Or where those areas were.

Surely they’d passed those special Mexican drinks a while back. But where?

Patton encouraged Thomas to turn around and go back, but after several aisles he still couldn’t find anything he was looking for. He turned back around, and then again.

“Perhaps… I need to go from one end all the way to the other…”

Virgil popped up again, rather grumpy looking, but not as much as earlier. “That’s gonna take too long. We’re already late, and Mom is gonna need Thomas home son so she can make dinner.”

Patton sighed. “Ok. Logan, help please, I’m lost.”

Logan popped up, looked around, and then pointed. “That aisle.”

“But how do you know?” Patton asked.

“There’s a sign above it.”

Patton looked up. “Oh. Yeah.” He chuckled. “I should’ve thought to look for signs. Thanks, Logan!”

“You’re welcome. However I do suggest we attempt to make our trip home expedient. I’ll need Virgil’s full attention and assistance to prepare adequately for the test.”

“Will do!” Patton said, already spurring Thomas towards the aisle.

••^*^••

“I have created the ultimate maze!” Roman said excitedly. “It is called Infinite IKEA!”

Patton clapped excitedly, and even Logan gave a single clap.

“I really don’t see the point—“

“The point is a race, Emo Nightmare, and the winner gets to pick which old reruns Thomas watches tonight.”

Virgil tried to pretend he was still disinterested, but Patton could tell he was excited. “So what would we have to do to win the race?”

Roman grinned. “I’ve hidden a copy of each of our logos in the store somewhere, except for mine, which Logan hid by sinking in and placing it in a random place, so he doesn’t know the layout of the store yet. You have to find your own logo, and then exit the store!”

Oh, so that was why Logan had a bump on his head. He’d probably tried to rise up too close to a shelf. Ouch.

“Everybody ready! Set! Go!”

They all rushed into the store. Patton looked around excitedly, getting more excited to see that the store was full of items that came from houses where Thomas had lived or visited. He ran to the section of beds and flopped onto the biggest one.

He let out a comfy sigh, looking up at the roof which, rather than being metal supports and too-bright lights, was intricately painted with something that glowed.

It was amazing.

“You did a really great job, Roman,” Patton said, even though Roman was probably running ahead to win the race— oh! This was a race!

He jumped up and started walking, looking around for his heart with glasses.

After the bed section, where he wished he could stay and flip onto each one, he wandered into the lamps and chandeliers section. That was beautiful. He was still dazzled and in awe walking out. It even had that massive one Thomas had seen in the one hotel once.

And then came books, where Logan was!

“Hi, Logan!”

“Ah, greetings Patton.” Logan was looking through the books, just as captivated as Patton had been by the beds.

“Find your logo yet?”

“Not yet. I’m not overly concerned with winning, and Roman has certainly made this an interesting place to browse.”

“Mhmm!” Patton looked around. “Where are the kids books, I want to see if the Winnie the Pooh book is still chewed on or if Roman made it brand new.”

“That way, two shelves down,” Logan said, rather distracted by a book he’d picked off of the shelf.

“Thank you!”

Patton found the children’s section, and then found the book. It was still chewed on the corners. He smiled, and flipped through the thick cardboard pages. Thomas had loved this book.

And then, when he opened the last page, his logo fell out.

“Awww, look!” He picked it up, and found that it was a sticker. He promptly stuck the sticker to his chest and put the book back. Now all he had to do was find his way out!

He wandered into the next section, which was all dark and purples and blues and blacks and everything cozily packed together.

There was even a sign warning him away from certain aisles, because there would be spiders, and Patton was very glad Roman had thought of that.

And then he remembered the sunglasses stand sitting at the beginning of the lights aisle. That was probably for Virgil. Roman had been so thoughtful in building this! Patton hoped Roman would win. He certainly deserved the prize after putting all this together.

There was a whole section of Disney, all the movies, and posters, and any Disney themed toys and figurines, and even cardboard cut outs! It was lovely and chaotic and colorful, and it bridged Virgil’s section with Roman’s very well.

Roman had every single picture Thomas had ever seen, which was so many pictures!! Patton looked in awe until he realized that the paintbrushes weren’t just for show, some of them had been used. There was a little black cat in the corner of one painting, and a little V, and the paintbrush was in a cup of black water.

Patton found a picture of a field of flowers, and picked up the paintbrush, dabbing a bit of pink onto the picture. It turned instead into exactly the kind of flower Patton had been envisioning! He smiled wide and painted another, and another, and another, and each one turned out beautiful!

He ran to another painting and gave a little boy in the background a balloon and a smile. And then he gave the lady sitting in a rocking chair a baby to hold.

He finally had to stop himself. He could stay here forever, but he probably should get to the end of the store so he wouldn’t worry the others.

He got to the end of Roman’s section, only to find a massive blanket fort. He kept himself from exploring, and passed through, coming out at… the beds again?

Ohhhhh, right. It was a race and a maze.

Patton flopped down on the bed Thomas had grown up with, wrapping up in the blanket. He let out a happy sigh.

“Logan! Roman! Virgil! I’m lost! But I’m also gonna stay lost!”

Roman rose up and leaned against the footboard, a pleased smile on his face. “Enjoying the store?”

“I’m loving it!” Patton said happily, sitting up. “You did a really good job!”

Roman glowed. “I guess I’ll have to leave it up for you to wander in then. Once Virgil finds the exit I’ll put it somewhere more obvious so you can get out once you’re done.”

“Oh, did you and Logan already get out? Who won?”

“Logan, but only by a few minutes. He hid my logo in a hard place! How was I supposed to guess he’d put it under the makeup stash?”

Patton chuckled. “Wait, I didn’t see that.”

“It’s in Virgil’s section, in one of the spider aisles. I can un-spider it for you if you want.”

“Well, let Virgil have his fun first, but I’d really like that.” Patton smiled. He could have fun in here for a long time. “You did an amazing job with the paintings too! I loved those!”

Roman puffed up happily. “I did, didn’t I?”

There was a distant, triumphant, “Ha! I made it! Wait, Princey beat me? Aww.”

Patton giggled.

Roman patted his shoulder. “Have fun.”

“I will!” Patton said happily, eyeing the blanket fort which he now had time to explore.

—————

If you enjoyed, please reblog! And consider supporting me as I try to make a living off of writing 😊

#my own work #sanders sides #sanders sides spoilers #virgil sanders #patton sanders #roman sanders #logan sanders

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jaskierek · 4 years ago

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Wildflowers

Part 1 Part 2

Summary: Geralt and Jaskier had been friends for over two decades before Geralt forced them apart. Afterwards, he’d looked everywhere. The bard was nowhere to be found. Not even magic could find him. What had happened to his friend? ao3

Eight years into their partnership, Geralt was commissioned to rid a village of a nasty foglet that had taken up residency in a swamp at the centre of the neighbouring forest. The blacksmith, Filip, lived closest to the forest edge and had three young daughters who he feared for. He had collected money from the villagers in order to afford the Witcher’s services and had insisted on showing Geralt the way. He’d said the forest had many low-lying bogs and marshes, especially during this time of year.

Jaskier had been eager to join the Witcher, despite knowing that his outfit would return ruined, yet he’d been relegated to the role of babysitter.

“Come on, Geralt!” He whined, watching the Witcher swing his swords onto his back and collect the moondust he needed.

“No.” Came the simple response. Jaskier huffed.

“Honestly, why can’t Filip hire someone from the village for a night or leave the kids on their own? It’s not like they’re infants, and there’s three of them for goodness’ sake.”

“All of them have yet to reach the age of ten,” Geralt said in that rumbling voice of his as he walked up to the bard, gear on and a vaguely scolding look on his face, “and why hire someone to babysit when we’ve got a lovely and willing nanny here for free?”

Jaskier’s jaw dropped dramatically and he sputtered, trying to get past the offence and form a coherent sentence in response to Geralt’s shit-eating grin.

“You - I - listen here, Witcher - while I am lovely, there is no - how -“

The Witcher simply patted Jaskier on the head a bit harder than necessary, and stepped out of the room Filip had given them to get prepared.

“Ready?” The blacksmith asked. He stood in the doorway dressed in a thick, wool coat, hood over his head and straw-blonde hair peeking out from under his coif. He held a glass lantern in one hand and a sturdy, steel sword in another.

“You won’t need that.” Geralt grumbled, walking towards the man. Filip took what Jaskier knew to be an involuntary step back. The bard still winced. There was still a ways to go in Geralt’s image rehabilitation he was learning.

“I could help.” Filip countered weakly. Jaskier admired the man’s bravery, most tended to let the Witcher do what needed to be done with no care for his return or survival. Jaskier also didn’t doubt that Filip could have been of help. The man stood tall, with rounded shoulders from years of smithing, the thick coat only making him look bigger. He could definitely have been of help if-

“Silver swords kill beasts, your steel won’t do much harm.” Geralt said, walking past and heading to the door. “Better to just stay out of the way.”

Filip paused for a moment.

“Yes, well, I think I’d like to take it. For my own peace of mind.”

Geralt studied the man over his shoulder before seemingly accepting that there was not much else to say on the subject and the two left. Jaskier tapped his foot uncertainly before running to the door and swinging it open.

“Oi! Witcher! I am very much not willing and this is very much not for free! I am expecting compensation!” He yelled out to the shrinking figures.

“Fuck off, Jaskier.” Jaskier could just make out Geralt’s gruff but amused reply through the whipping of the wind. He smiled and returned inside, only to be faced with three pairs of large brown eyes. Startled a little, he smiled tentatively. Unlike their father, all three girls had reddish-brown hair and gentle features.

“You must be Filip’s daughters.” He said in way of greeting. He received an eerily unison blink. “Right uh…you should be in bed.”

“Where’s daddy gone?” The tallest one to the left asked.

“He…he went to go show his friend something.” Jaskier responded, trying not to worry the children.

“That man is a Witcher.”

Jaskier paused, not really knowing what to say and eventually settling on a slow “yes, he is.”

“Daddy’s not friends with Witchers.”

“Well, he is now.”

“But Witchers can’t have friends.”

“Now that’s just not true. Who told you that?” Jaskier asked, a bit peeved. They just blinked again and didn’t respond. “Ok, well, that’s not true because I’m friends with a Witcher.” He huffed, whether or not the friendship was mutual was still a bit in question for him.

The girls stared at him silently and Jaskier was honestly at a loss. He hadn’t had much experience with children, apart from singing the occasional fairy tale or nursery rhyme.

“Would you like me to play you a song?” He asked, fingers twitching to hold his lute.

“No.” They all said monotonously. Alright, really, were all children this difficult? And this…synchronised?

“You really should be going to bed then.”

“Can you paint?” The smallest one asked suddenly. Jaskier frowned at the question, a bit confused.

Thats how Geralt and Filip found him three hours later. Paints and unfinished artworks scattered around the floor and at the centre of it all, a very colourful bard. He sat on the floor, legs spread out as three auburn-haired little girls stood around him, paintbrushes in hand.

Filip laughed loudly. “I just bought them all paints and parchment two days ago.” He commented, taking his coat off.

“You don’t say.” Jaskier responded sarcastically as one of the girls poked at his temple with a green brush. He had rolled up his sleeves and trousers to give them some more space to work and also to avoid as much paint on his clothes as he could. It hadn’t worked very well as evidenced by the many drips and smears on his purple doublet. His face, arms and legs were covered in mostly yellow smudges, with a couple of green and pink accents here and there.

The girls hadn’t reacted much to their father’s return, nor to the intimidating presence of the Witcher. Speaking of, Geralt was currently leaning against the wall, arms crossed, looking very entertained. Jaskier tried to communicate with his eyes that he was in dire need of aid, yet the cruel man did nothing but observe the multicoloured bard and the three little girls dancing around him.

“Ok, girls,” Filip said, coming over and kneeling beside them, gently removing a paintbrush from the youngest’s hand, “time to say goodbye and go to bed, hm?”

“Do you like our painting, daddy?” She asked, blinking those big brown eyes at him. They all looked very pleased with their work. Filip’s eyes looked over to Jaskier, giving him a once-over and smiling apologetically.

“Yes, love, it’s gorgeous as always. Now bed?” He tried again, reaching out to the others. Jaskier didn’t know how happy he was at being called an “it” but decided to hold his tongue for now. The brushes were all handed over. They themselves were smeared with paint as well, nowhere near as much as the bard though. He was more canvas than a bard at this point.

Filip told Geralt and Jaskier that he’d wash the girls - and their sheets - tomorrow and that they could have the bath for tonight, both men in desperate need of a wash.

Geralt, in a rare show of mercy, allowed Jaskier to go first. He sat by the wall, listening to the bard complain about how difficult the paint was to scrub off. He couldn’t help but let out an amused huff occasionally, earning a sour look from the bard.

“Oh, how you revel in my misery.” He muttered. Geralt rolled his eyes.

“Now we know that you’re not cut out to be a nanny after all.” Geralt teased.

“All things considered, I think I did an alright job.”

“Jaskier, you’re yellow.”

Being glared at by a wet bard sitting in yellow water was not the most intimidated the Witcher had ever been.

Not long after, Jaskier stepped out of the wooden bath and Geralt stepped in.

The Witcher melted into the tub as Jaskier’s nimble fingers threaded through his hair. Albeit, a bit rougher than usual. He had started using his own soaps and oils on Geralt, leaving his hair soft and shiny. He could tell Geralt liked it, despite his complaints that it left him smelling like rose water and cloves. It was a pleasant scent though.

“Why’d they paint you yellow?” Geralt asked placidly, eyes closed. Jaskier laughed softly.

“I told them what my name meant. I was meant to look like a field of buttercups, I presume.” He replied fondly. Geralt hummed. They bathed in silence for a while until Jaskier said softly; “the second eldest one is called Julia. She told me the name means strength.”

Geralt said nothing, sensing the bard’s mood had changed.

“I had a sister once.” Jaskier continued. Though surprised, Geralt made no comment. “Her name was Julia.” Silence fell again as Jaskier gently pushed Geralt’s shoulder. The Witcher moved at the pressure, allowing the bard to tilt his head back and rinse his hair off.

“Julka przed samotnością nie odczuwa lęku, bo to dziewczyna pełna wdzięku.” Jaskier said, more to himself than to the Witcher.

“What does it mean?”

“In the face of loneliness, Julka is not afraid,” Jaskier whispered, recalling the old saying, “because she is a girl full of grace.”

Geralt clenched his eyes tighter, not knowing what to say in the face of Jaskier’s gentle grief.

Geralt had stared down that same face of loneliness. Could he say that he’d confronted it fearlessly?

Jaskier ran his fingers through the Witcher’s hair one last time and gave it a hard tug.

“That’s for calling me a nanny again.” He remarked weakly. Geralt opened his eyes, watching Jaskier walk away and change into his night clothes.

The face of loneliness seemed to blur.

Filip allowed them to stay the night and they left early the next day. Geralt was prepping Roach when Filip’s three young girls ran up to him, the one in the middle holding a bag of coin. The blacksmith was crouched in the doorway, watching them with a small smile.

“This is for you.” The one in the centre said very seriously, handing over the payment with an air of importance. Not an ounce of fear showed on any of their faces. Geralt felt vague concern over their survival instincts.

“Er…thank you.” Geralt said awkwardly, taking the money. He was about to stuff it into Roach’s saddle before he thought better of it and placed it gently into his breast pocket, patting it to reassure the girl that he’d keep it safe. She smiled brightly at him and the three of them blinked at the same time. Geralt could only blink in return, not knowing where to go from there.

“Goodbye, Jaskier’s friend!” They announced and scurried off. Jaskier was just coming out of the house as they ran past, giggling. He jumped out of the way with a yelp, eyes following them bemusedly. Looking back to Geralt, he raised a brow. The Witcher simply shrugged. Jaskier laughed.

No, loneliness did not feel as present anymore.

—

Eleven years into their familiarity, Jaskier asked a question.

“I wonder what it feels like to die.”

Geralt had sensed his miserable mood all day. He’d been quiet and he hadn’t touched his lute or hummed a melody and strangest of all, he’d done what Geralt had told him. He’d stayed at the camp when Geralt had taken a contract to get rid of a wild boar and he’d collected firewood with no complaints when told.

Geralt sensed Jaskier’s unhappiness, he knew something was wrong, yet he didn’t know what to do, didn’t know how to help. The very fact that he wanted to help, instead of revelling in the silence, came as a surprise. Jaskier’s statement was even more of a surprise. The casual way he said it jarred with the reality that this was the first thing Jaskier had said in hours.

They stared at each other from across the fire between them. Jaskier’s cornflower eyes lustreless and not expectant of an answer.

“I know what it feels like.” Geralt responded, own voice gruff from disuse. He could tell that he’d startled the bard. Jaskier’s blue eyes suddenly cleared and glinted with concern.

“How…how do you know what it feels like to die?” Jaskier asked and Geralt was surprised by the emotion behind his words.

“There are many ways to die, bard.”

Jaskier frowned.

“How do you know what it feels like to die, Geralt?” Jaskier pressed.

“I do not know what death feels like, but I am familiar with the journey.”

Geralt didn’t know whether he was skirting around the question on purpose. The initial response to Jaskier’s statement of a question had come unbidden and honest. Now he could feel heat under his skin and an urge to sneer and turn tail. He couldn’t do that though, not now, not with Jaskier as he’s been all day.

“Geralt, you-“

“Jaskier,” He cut him off, then stopped himself. He took a breath, “I can’t imagine a Witcher who isn’t familiar with the experience.” Jaskier shut his mouth and remained silent, an unspoken offer to continue. Geralt accepted the moment of quiet, taking the opportunity to arrange his thoughts and suppress the grief that had suddenly swelled in him.

“When boys were recruited to become Witchers, they underwent mutations that most did not survive.” Jaskier nodded, this Geralt had told him before, “They put elixirs, poisons and mutagens into our tea for days beforehand and when we were immobilised, they injected them directly into our veins. Most who did not die immediately, died by the third day. Those who did not die by the third day, went mad from the pain -“

Geralt stopped, hesitating, eyes drifting to the writhing flames between them.

He remembered their glassy eyes, unseeing. Nothing existed but their agony. They’d scream themselves hoarse, shredding vocal chords and vomiting out blood. He knew that he must’ve been the same but he could not remember anything he did while undergoing the mutations. Nothing existed, nothing mattered, but the torment.

Geralt looked back at Jaskier, who’s gaze remained strong and level, though sad.

“After we went mad with pain, they injected us again. We were all restrained, of course, otherwise we would have torn our skin off to find some relief. This round of mutagens induced seizures, hallucinations, and in our weakened state, our body had to fight the viruses. On the seventh day, three out of ten boys woke with cat eyes, the rest were dead.”

Geralt closed his eyes for a moment.

“I did not…I woke up with human eyes. The mutagens hadn’t worked on me to the extent they had worked on the others. I was uniquely resistant.” The words sounded bitter. “They gave me a couple of extra rounds and that’s why you won’t ever find another white wolf, bard.”

Jaskier remained silent. Geralt saw tears had slipped down his face, the reflection of the fire turning them gold. Geralt couldn’t stand the thought of tears being spilled for him but he stayed quiet, he found he had no more words to give.

“That’s not dying.” Jaskier finally said, voice unwavering through the tears. “That’s not dying. That’s torture. That’s something that no one should go through, let alone a child. You don’t know what it’s like to die, Geralt, and you won’t know for a long time to come.”

Geralt didn’t know who he was trying to convince.

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

“Jaskier,” The Witcher tried to make his tone gentle, “Witchers don’t retire. I know what it’s like to bleed out. That is likely my fate.” Jaskier flinched and looked down at his hands, clenched around each other, knuckles white. Golden tears slipped between his fingers.

“What does it feel like to bleed out?” He whispered so quietly that Geralt wouldn’t have heard him had he not been what he was. He frowned, but complied.

“You’re thirsty and your tongue feels swollen. Your vision becomes distorted and blurry. You feel a numbness as your head pounds with pressure. You can’t stand for long, so you’re left bleeding out on the ground, trembling and sweating, feeling like you’re going to vomit.” Jaskier’s shoulders were trembling. Geralt couldn’t stop. “You feel like you just want to rest your head forever.”

Finally, Jaskier broke, a sob breaking out past his lips, only for more to follow. It felt like the whole day had been building to this breaking point and Geralt itched to hold him. Let Jaskier release all that had been welling inside him. Geralt stayed, staring at him through the fire, sure that his own grief was showing.

“Geralt?” Came Jaskier’s small voice, head finally rising to look at Geralt. His eyes were red and tears fell freely.

“Yes?”

“Has this happened since we’ve met?”

A pause.

“Once.”

“You didn’t tell me.” His tone wasn’t accusatory, yet it sounded hurt.

Geralt suddenly felt guilty. He hadn’t thought it information that Jaskier needed, or wanted, to know. He’d clearly been healed and the next time they had run into each other had been months after the incident. Geralt himself hadn’t thought much of it. Yet now he felt guilty, it felt as if he had withheld something from the bard. He didn’t know why the thought of him keeping secrets from the man sparked a pain in his chest. He couldn’t stand to look at the hurt in those blue eyes so he looked away.

“I understand why you didn’t, Geralt, I don’t blame you…just - just please -“ the bard’s voice broke. He took a moment to breath in, pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. “Please tell me, whether I’m around to help or not. I can’t - I can’t be a part of your life and not know. I -“

“Okay, I will.” Amber eyes locked with blue, reflecting the same flame. They gazed at each other for a time. Then, the bard rose on unsteady feet, rounding the fire and sitting beside the Witcher.

“I meant what I said. You won’t know death for a long time, dear friend. You will live for a good while yet.” He stated with no room for argument. Geralt couldn’t help but smile.

“Does destiny will it?”

“No,” said his friend, “I do.”

And so they sat for the rest of the evening. Golden eyes and golden tears.

—

Fourteen years into their friendship, there was a meadow.

It was spring and the meadow was blanketed by buttercups and dandelions and daisies and wild lupine. It was a messy quilt of colours that beckoned the bard forwards. The Witcher had taken notice of Jaskier’s love for spring, he’d taken note of a lot of things. He watched Jaskier run into the field, voice bubbling with laughter.

“Geralt look at this! It’s exquisite! We have to break here.” He was grinning at Geralt in his faded blue doublet. Geralt ached at that smile. He reluctantly agreed. How could he not?

That’s how they’d spent an all too rare afternoon lying on a sunny patch of grass. Geralt listening to the bard talk and hum, feeling the gentle heat from the sun-warmed ground seep in through his clothes, and when he opened his eyes he watched. He watched birds flit between trees and leaves shuffle in the breeze. He watched the bard blow a dandelion, blue eyes following the fluff as it glided through the air. Then those blue eyes turned to him and Jaskier smiled.

“You know what I’ve always wanted to learn, dear friend?” Suspecting another long Jaskier ramble, Geralt closed his eyes and hummed noncommittally. “I’ve always wanted to learn how to braid a flower garland.”

“Hmm, you don’t already know?” What with Jaskier’s love for spring, Geralt would have assumed that something as simple as making a flower crown would have easily found its way into the bard’s skill set.

“I suppose I’ve never had the opportunity.”

“Hm.” Geralt responded, mulling it over. They lapsed into a calm silence, well as much of a silence as one can get with a humming bard collecting flowers.

It was noon and the sun was overhead, its brightness filtering through his eyelids.

The humming stopped and he heard an excited “Geralt?”

“What, Jaskier?” He sighed.

“Teach me how to make a wreath.”

“No.”

“Oh, come on, you grumpy Witcher.”

“No.”

“But just look at these beautiful blossoms, it’d be such a shame not to put them to use.”

“Flowers have no use to anyone other than bees. Unless you’ve found some verbena or white myrtle.”

“How cynical of you, I can hardly believe it.” Geralt snorted at that. “Flowers have many uses, some of which I will detail to you now.”

“Please don’t-”

“Flowers are used for beautiful arrangements, placed at the centre of dinner tables or on mantelpieces, for magnificent perfumes that attract even the most stoic, and they create the most darling garlands, of which I am dying to learn the craft and am imploring my dear friend to teach me.”

Geralt groaned and opened his eyes to glare at the bard who was grinning cheekily at him.

“You are a pain in my ass, bard.” He acquiesced, knowing that Jaskier would take it as the acceptance that it is.

Sitting upright, he saw that Jaskier had already collected a bundle of wildflowers. Cornflowers and daisies and a myriad of others lay between them as they sat crosslegged, facing each other. Geralt’s hand immediately drifted to the cornflower nearest to him.

“It’s easier when you have a circle of string to wrap the stems around,” Geralt began, glancing back up at the sun-lit blue eyes looking right back at him, “but we’ve no string to spare. So once you’ve picked your starting flower, you pick another and wrap the stem a way’s down the stem of your first. Then you pick a third and wrap it around the stems of the first two.”

“A bit like braiding.”

“More like weaving,” Geralt explained, already a couple of flowers down his chain, “and then you keep adding more.”

Quiet settled between them once more. Geralt looked up every so often to check the bard’s progress, watching his nimble fingers weave his crown of flowers, rarely faulting. His eyes would wander up to Jaskier’s face, the bard’s brows frowning in concentration. The Witcher allowed himself a small smile. Jaskier had once told Geralt to alert him whenever he’d do this, hating the thought of wrinkles between his brows. Geralt of course never did. After all, it wasn’t his job to look out for the bard’s skin when it wasn’t being threatened by beasts or cuckolded spouses.

Geralt finished his garland first, realising that it consisted mostly of blue cornflowers and yellow dandelions and buttercups, broken up occasionally by reds.

“Complementary colours.”

“Hm?” Geralt asked, looking up at the bard.

“Yellow and blue. They complement each other. Honestly, Geralt, it’s simple colour theory.”

Geralt levelled him an unamused look, sending him back to work. Not long after, he watched the finishings of Jaskier’s own crown. An eager gaze slid up to Geralt’s face, eyebrows raised suggestively.

“No.” Came Geralt’s instant response.

“Please Geralt.” Jaskier whined. “No one’s here, your reputation is safe.” Geralt grunted, scowling at the bard whose big, blue eyes were pleading with him. With a sigh he reluctantly agreed. How could he not?

Jaskier’s own wreath was more varied than Geralt’s, with white daisies and purple aster and multicoloured poppies. Geralt let Jaskier shuffle closer, raising himself up on his knees so he could crown his Witcher in blossoms. Geralt watched his delighted face as he arranged the flowers just right, fingers grazing and pushing back the Witcher’s white hair. Geralt resisted the urge to lean into the touch. The gentle hands fell to his shoulders, warm gaze falling to look into yellow eyes.

“I’d write a song about this, a Witcher in a flower crown, if I didn’t think it’d be very unpopular.”

Geralt growled, glaring up at him.

“Ah, yes, and also because you’d gut me on the spot.” Jaskier added on. “I must say though, you look very dashing.”

Geralt didn’t say anything to that. He continued to stare up at the bard, glad that the man was happy, and content to be in his presence in a rare moment of peace.

“Now, my dear, I must wear yours.” Jaskier said. Geralt blinked then looked down at the wreath in his hands. Jaskier sat back, awaiting his floral coronation. Geralt smiled softly as he placed the crown on Jaskier’s head. It was a bit big for the bard’s head and pushed his fringe further into his eyes as it slipped down his head slightly. Snorting, Geralt pushed the brown hair from Jaskier’s face, fingers brushing his cheek as he pulled back. He found himself longing to touch him again but pulled away at the look of wonder in the bard’s eyes.

Jaskier went on to make another garland for Roach, making a show of crowning her “Lady of the Meadowland”. It was all very ridiculous so Geralt closed his eyes again and lay back onto the sun-warmed grass. He heard Jaskier amble over, felt his presence as he lay beside him with a deep sigh.

Geralt cracked an eye open to look at him. His eyes were closed. The sun turned his brown hair bronze, blue and yellow petals resting there crookedly. Geralt couldn’t help but think that Jaskier belonged here.

He belonged among the sun and the wildflowers.

—

Sixteen years into whatever the fuck they were and Geralt had been hired to kill a Griffin.

Fucking griffins and their fucking talons.

Geralt felt the ground pull at him magnetically.

He’d lost a lot of blood.

He stumbled to the ground.

He would have been content to press his feverish face into the cool, damp grass and simply lay there, if it hadn’t been for a single thought in his head.

Jaskier.

“Please tell me, whether I’m around to help or not.”

Fuck.

He pushed himself up shakily, a stab of pain pierced through the pressure in his head. He tried blinking past the faded edges of his vision and the spots floating between the trees like black will o’ the wisps.

He stumbled forward, hands pressed to his stomach. They didn’t do much to stop the heavy flow of blood gushing out of him. His fingers were numb but the rest of him was warm, so warm. He had to make it back, he couldn’t die without seeing Jaskier one more time. He couldn’t die here alone.

The face of loneliness came into focus amidst the blurry forest.

Somehow he made it back to the camp. Jaskier’s back was to him. He was stroking Roach’s snout, singing to her softly. It was a lullaby Jaskier sang whenever either of them couldn’t sleep. Geralt smiled in relief, the pressure in is head lifting slightly at the familiar sound.

“Jaskier.” The bards name fell out of him like a breath. Finally, he let the ground pull him down.

He woke up again in rather large bed, head cushioned on a feather pillow. Looking around he saw a glass of water on the desk in the corner, a painting of a long-bearded, angry-looking man on the wall across from him and a silk sheet covering him up to his bare chest. He frowned. This was not the typical establishment he was accustomed to.

Shifting slightly, he felt a weight on his arm. Confused, he looked to the right to find a mess of brown hair resting on his bicep. Geralt blinked, eyes widening. Jaskier was clearly asleep, curled around his side, head on his arm and hand resting in Geralt’s loose fingers. The Witcher suddenly felt warm and couldn’t help but tighten his hand around the bard’s.

While closing his hand, he involuntarily closed his other one, feeling something hard and cool under his fingers. Lifting it to his face, he saw that it was actually a stone, vaguely triangular in shape, with a wonky hole in the middle. What was strangest however, were the smudgy yellow flowers that had been painted around the hole. He assumed they were flowers as he could just make out some petals and wobbly, green stems.

Putting the mystery aside for a moment, he placed the stone down on the bed beside him. Removing his covers gently so as not to wake Jaskier, Geralt felt along his bandaged belly. The pain wasn’t too bad, more of an ache than anything and that could’ve simply been from the blood loss.

He wondered where they were. Their camp hadn’t been too far from a town, but that meant that Jaskier had somehow lifted him onto Roach and galloped through the forest and into town in search of a healer. Geralt knew that the bard was strong, muscle lined his arms and legs, tightened his stomach when he stepped into cold water. Almost two decades of joining Geralt on the path had given him a rather large build. Nevertheless, a limp Witcher was no easy feat to lift, especially onto a horse.

He felt Jaskier stir beside him. His head was still towards him but he could tell he’d opened his eyes because he promptly covered the Witcher back up with the silk cover he’d peeled off earlier. Geralt shifted and suddenly big, blue eyes were looking up at him. From this angle, he could see that the bard’s feet had been hanging off the edge of the bed from his position on Geralt’s arm.

“Geralt!” He exclaimed, smiling brightly. “You’re awake.” Geralt gave a soft grunt in response. “How are you feeling?” Jaskier asked, sitting up. He realised he was still holding onto Jaskier’s hand, so he let it go reluctantly, allowing the bard to pull it out of his grip.

“Like I lost most of my blood.”

“Ha ha.” Jaskier said humourlessly. Geralt sighed and looked up at the ceiling.

“Are you upset with me?” He asked finally. He knew Jaskier was upset but he didn’t know what kind of upset it was. Angry? Sad? Annoyed?

“I was,” Jaskier began. Geralt’s jaw tightened and Jaskier grasped his hand comfortingly. “But then I realised that I had no reason to be upset with you, I think my feelings of fear and concern got a bit muddled. Geralt, I was fucking terrified.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, it’s not your fault, it was just…a lot.” Geralt winced and looked back to the bard. He was looking at their joined hands, blue eyes hazy and far away. Geralt didn’t know what he was seeing. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know. He gave Jaskier’s hand a tight squeeze, bringing him back. Jaskier smiled at him sheepishly.

“Were you surprised to wake up?” The bard asked. Geralt thought for a moment.

“No.”

“No?”

Geralt raised a brow, not entirely knowing what Jaskier wanted him to say. No, he wasn’t surprised. His only thought had been Jaskier. That he wanted to see him again. He wasn’t thinking much of being healed or waking later. Yet now that he thought about it, there wasn’t much doubt in him that Jaskier would help him in whatever way he could.

A thought came into Geralt’s mind.

“What’s this?” He asked, raising the painted stone. A blush tinged Jaskier’s cheeks pink.

“Ah…it’s a - it’s a hagstone.”

Geralt rolled his eyes.

“Yes, I see that, why was it in my hand and why is it covered in flowers?”

“Well, if you don’t like it, I’ll take it back.” Jaskier said pettishly, reaching for it. Geralt pulled it out of his reach.

“No, I want it.” Geralt said, grinning. Jaskier dropped his hand and huffed, looking away.

“Remember when you left me to babysit those three girls a couple of years ago?”

Geralt blinked, vaguely recalling three sets off big brown eyes.

“They painted you yellow.”

“They painted buttercups, just…on me.”

“They painted you yellow.”

“Yes, okay, thank you.” Jaskier sighed, rolling his eyes. “The hagstone dropped out of my pocket and they…painted that too.” He smiled sheepishly.

That was nearly a decade ago. Geralt couldn’t believe he’d held onto it for that long. He pulled it closer so he could examine it genuinely. He could make out the smudgy, yellow petals attached to green stems. They were dotted around the stone, growing in a cluster. The yellow paint had remained fairly unfaded. Geralt rubbed his thumb over the stone.

“You can keep it if you want.” Jaskier said. Geralt turned to find him already looking at him, eyebrow raised and smiling. The look of sincerity on the bard’s face had Geralt looking away.

“Why did you put it in my hand?”

“They’re for protection and healing. Surely you know that.”

Geralt knew what they were for, theoretically. The protective powers of witch stones were a myth though, just humans placing undue importance on an unusual rock. In reality, it was just that. A rock. One that had been eroded by water or animals. Geralt didn’t say anything though.

He didn’t know if he could say anything. Jaskier had carried this stone with him for a decade, maybe more, hoping for protection and now he was giving it to him. A Witcher who, by all appearances, didn’t want nor need luck. The bottom line was that the bard wanted him safe and Geralt had absolutely no way of dealing with that.

“They’re also used to keep witches away,” Jaskier continued, “useful incase we ever cross paths with Yennefer again.”

Geralt snorted.

“She’s a sorceress.” He countered

“And I’m a musician. It doesn’t mean I’m not also a bard.” Jaskier sniffed disdainfully. He pushed himself up the bed so he was leaning against the headboard and sitting next to Geralt. He continued to talk, allowing the Witcher to simply listen and think about how close their hands were between them.

—

Twenty two years since they met.

The wind bit at him, seeking to push him off his feet as he looked down at the snarling Witcher.

“Why is it whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it’s you shovelling it?”

“That’s not fair.” He couldn’t help protesting weakly.

“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands.” Geralt gritted out between clenched teeth, amber eyes burning with emotion, he was practically shaking with it.

Jaskier stood and watched as the Witcher turned and stormed further away from him. Tension and aggression written into the way Geralt’s shoulders tensed, fists tight, arms loose, ready to attack. Jaskier had seen Geralt like this before, more times than he could count, but it had never been directed at him. No matter how many times he irritated the Witcher or inadvertently gotten them into trouble, Geralt never had more for him than a hard glare and some frustrated shouts.

This was different. This felt final. This felt like the end. The inevitable conclusion to his tragic love story because fuck him, he’d fallen in love with a man sworn to someone else.

“Right, uh,” Jaskier managed to get out, suddenly finding it difficult to breath, “right, then,” he tried again, looking away, eyes blinking rapidly, “I’ll - I’ll go get the rest of the story from the others.” He turned and walked away, his attempt at casualness flimsy and transparent.

While Geralt berated destiny, fought against it and ignored it wholeheartedly, Jaskier accepted his fate because he had always known it was coming.

But, damn, did it hurt.

He didn’t get the rest of the story.

He stuffed all of his belongings into a bag, slung his lute over his shoulder, gave Roach one last, teary-eyed hug and ran. Geralt had walked away from him, both physically and metaphorically, and now Jaskier needed as much space between them as possible. He ran down the mountain, tripping on uneven paths and scratching his hands bloody. The burn in his lungs and chest felt poetic.

In the last two decades of his life, he and Geralt had always found their way back to each other after weeks or months apart. Sure, he’d keep an ear out for news of a Witcher but most of the time, Melitele save him, it had been a gods-honest accident. The romantic that he is believed it to be fate, and perhaps it was, but he knew now that it wasn’t the kind sort.

Fate was cruel and maleficent, making him believe that their hearts were intertwined when in reality it had been a ploy to torture them both in the end. Destiny left Jaskier heartbroken and Geralt with a life he didn’t want.

—

Some part of his mind registered Jaskier walking away.

Most of it was focused on containing the pain.

He had felt it slowly bloom in his chest at Yennefer’s weak “that’s why we can’t escape each other?” Anguish and bitterness in her voice. From there it had unfurled and spread throughout his body, the emotion burning him from the inside.

His being was now solely fixated on not letting it spread further.

Again, some part of him registered that it already had, it had spread to the bard, it had lashed out at him.

He felt like a flaming whip pulled taught. He felt in in his shoulders, his fists, his jaw.

He breathed in deeply.

His eyes were wet. He tried focusing them on the green valley below.

He breathed out and sunk to his knees.

He waited for the rushing noise in his head to stop.

His cheeks were wet.

He turned around. Yennefer was gone. Jaskier too.

So were their things when he returned to camp.

He breathed in and wailed.

—

The world was dull to him. The trees were not as green. The shades of blue across cornflower petals didn’t look the same anymore.

The world was quiet to him. Too quiet. Something was missing.

Never did he think the world would be dull and quiet. It had always been the opposite, too much, too loud.

He missed Jaskier desperately.

He hadn’t found him again since the mountain.

He could tell Roach missed him too.

Snippets of songs and melodies that had Jaskier’s mark drifted here and there. They were never him. How strange it was to hear others recount his own tales when he had grown so used to Jaskier being the only one.

For the first six months, he’d kept an ear out for any gossip of the famous bard but he had always seemed to arrive just a few days behind. Two months later and the chatter had dried up. No one had seen the bard, no one sang any new songs of his. He had searched the continent, gone to the coast, gone to Jaskier’s own town and found no sign of him.

It was like he had ceased to exist and so, Geralt’s world was dull and quiet.

The face of loneliness had never been clearer.

After those first eight months, he’d also started sleeping poorly.

Before, he’d been a light sleeper, ready to jump out of his bedroll fully aware and ready to defend. It came with being a Witcher. Although, admittedly, the nights spent in inns, on a relatively soft mattress, with a sleep-warm bard next to him had left him sleeping a bit deeper, waking a bit dazed.

Yet after those eight months, he’d slept restlessly. He’d dream of a weeping willow, drooping sadly. He’d dream of an open field and oddly wake up feeling caged.

When he himself found no sign of the bard, he’d gone to one of the few people he trusted, Triss Merigold. He had given her an old undershirt that Jaskier had forgotten to take with him. He made her try for three days before she had finally said “I really am sorry, Geralt, but truly, I can find no sign of your friend.” Geralt took the soft material back. “I fear he’s -“

“Don’t.” Whatever look he’d had on his face made her snap her mouth shut. Dark eyes looked at him with pity as he had turned, dropped some coin and left.

He’d go to Yennefer next.

“Geralt,” she greeted tensely, “didn’t think I’d be seeing you again so soon.”

Geralt had found Yennefer a few months after the dragon contract. They’d agreed that though they cared for each other deeply, it was best for them to have space, to move on. Geralt hoped desperately that one day they would become friends. Yennefer, though difficult and battle-hardened, remained fair and kind, one of the only people with whom Geralt shared easy conversation.

There was a longing between them, one that both knew was not falsified by the djinn. Neither knew what sort of longing they felt. One of friendship, companionship, understanding? Time and space would let them learn.

“I know,” He muttered apologetically, “I need your help.”

“You look awful.” She simply responded. Geralt winced. “You haven’t been sleeping.”

The Witcher opted for silence. He knew that she had heard him and knew that she was studying him, pondering his request.

“What do you need?” She asked finally, tone not one of acceptance but of curiosity.

“Jaskier.” The word came out sounding more distressed than he had intended. It was harder to maintain a mask through sleep deprivation. Yennefer’s expression briefly shifted to one of concern.

“What happened?”

Geralt’s throat suddenly felt compressed. Those two words somehow confirming that something had happened. Something had to have happened if he and Triss couldn’t find him.

Fear was a terrifying emotion because he truly didn’t know what he would do to end it.

“I…I don’t know. I can’t find him and neither can Triss.” Geralt pulled out the same shirt he had given to the other sorceress, gripping the folded fabric tightly in his hands. He looked up at Yennefer to find her looking right back with a sort of unease. “Please,” he said, offering the garment to her, “track him if you can.”

She stared at the shirt apprehensively, gaze snapping up to Geralt’s, looking for something. Finally, she sighed and turned to walk over to a large bookshelf, pulling out a thick, yellow-paged tome that had clearly not been removed for a good while.

“You’re lucky night is falling,” she said, stepping outside, not waiting for Geralt to follow. He did. “If regular tracking didn’t work, we’ll have to do it the hard way.” She walked to the middle of her large garden, sitting cross-legged in the grass, wine-coloured dress pooling around her. Geralt approached, ready to be told off and to step back, yet Yennefer said nothing as he sat down across from her.

The sorceress flipped the tome open to the centre, each side resting on a knee. Each side also being a couple inches thick. Tucked into the middle, between the two pages was a thin, silver geometrical compass. Yennefer lifted it with an elegant hand and placed it over one of the many configurations on the page. Geralt’s limited knowledge allowed him to surmise that they were astronomical. He looked up to the sky and the stars that he only knew to use for navigation.

“The shirt.” Yennefer said sharply, snapping his gaze back down to her and her outstretched hand. Shirt in one hand, compass in the other and tome on her lap, she began to speak. It was some variation of Elder. Geralt, only knowing the basics of the root language, was left clueless as the space above the book began to glow.

The light transformed the yellowed pages gold, illuminating Yennefer’s perfect features and making her look all the part of the powerful mage he knew she was. She dropped the shirt on the grass between them. Violet eyes looked up to the stars, compass travelling across the golden pages of the book. She flipped back and forth between the pages, her eyes shooting between stars. The compass twisted in complicated circular motions across configurations.

The light began to die slowly, Yennefer’s words slowing to a stop as she closed her eyes, clearly disappointed. Geralt’s stomach dropped and he felt like he might throw up the paltry dinner he’d had a few hours earlier.

“Yennefer, please -“

“I’m not done yet, Geralt.” She responded sharply before taking a breath, “I need something personal to him, something with an emotional connection. I may not be able to find his physical body,” because he may be dead was left unsaid “but I can perhaps find his spirit.”

Geralt tried to keep the devastation off his face at the implication.

An emotional connection. He knew immediately what to give her. A small pocket in the side of his leather armour held a painted witch stone. He gently pulled it out, rubbing his thumb over the messy petals of the buttercups. Yennefer didn’t comment on the item, though she looked at him with pinched brows. He placed the stone in the sorceress’ outstretched palm.

The golden light returned and Geralt watched as the sorceress studied the stars, measuring out constellations and distances in her book. Geralt had never been one for religion but he prayed, prayed for something.

Again, the light faded and Yennefer looked to him with a frown.

—

He’d been looking for tracks in the large forested area Yennefer had pointed him to. He’d been looking for two days and nothing had been found.

Honestly, he didn’t know what he was looking for. Yennefer had been unable to find his body but had found his spirit? Were they no longer attached? Geralt’s mind had been filtering through the different options of what that could mean, but even Yennefer didn’t know what to say. The thought that he might be dead was an unwelcome one in his mind.

It had recently rained and the ground squelched and shifted under Geralt’s boots. Most of the tracks had been washed away by the rain. Geralt lead Roach through the trees, eyes catching on imprints in the ground and broken shrub twigs. All signs indicating animal presence rather than human.

The forest was familiar to the Witcher, he’d been here before. He didn’t think much of it, he’d been to most places on the continent, the Path taking him wherever he needed to be. Yet when he tried to recall the memory tied to this place, it was not one of necessity or danger. He couldn’t quite pinpoint it.

Giving up on the meagre prints, he let the memory lead him. His feet found a forgotten path. Boots had flattened the earth so compactly, it was likely to last a long time. But it was littered with leaves and branches, clearly not trod on for a long while. He remembered the path, it had not looked so different the first time he had found it. It had soothed him that though this forest may once have been peopled, it was unlikely that they’d run into trouble.

They. He hadn’t been alone in the memory.

Vague and distant chatter tugged him forward, the line between reality and recollection blurring. He let go of Roach’s reins, trusting her to follow. He surged through the trees, pushing aside branches. Sunlight and grass filtered through the trees.

Spring.

Buttercups, dandelions, daisies, cornflowers.

A laugh ringing in his ears.

“Geralt look at this! It’s exquisite! We have to break here.”

The Witcher burst through the line of trees and froze. A field of green grass. It was familiar, but not just from the memory. A shiver down the back of his neck. Dread tightened his chest. His eyes landed on a weeping willow, its leaves pale. He didn’t remember it being here the last time.

Uneasily, he made his way towards it. It sagged so low that Geralt could not quite make out its bark. The pale leaves almost sparkled in the sun from the wetness of the leaves.

The Witcher crouched lower as he got closer, seeing a body through the drooping leaves. His hand hovered over his sword. He stopped before the wall of pallid green. The person behind had not moved, clearly unaware of his presence. He reached a hand out and pulled the leaves away, one hand still on the pommel of his sword.

His eyes landed on the man sitting on the damp grass, leaning back against the tree.

Geralt felt like the air had been punched out of him, body becoming immediately slack.

Wide shoulders. Soft, brown hair. Blue, inquisitive eyes.

“Fuck-“ the word came out sounding more like a sob than anything else, “Jaskier”.

Geralt took two steps forward and collapsed on his knees.

“Jaskier.” He reached out to touch him, to feel him warm and safe.

He felt nothing. His fingers slipped through.

A shimmer and a blur and the bark of a willow tree.

89 notes · View notes

bbugyu · 4 years ago

Text

no warning + xu minghao

he saw you laying there, swimming in his pillows, and suddenly he never wanted you to leave.

wc.2803 | smut, fluff, this is some real sappy shit, fuckbuddies to crushbuddies, artist/uni au, yall probably go to nyu or sumn, cursing, mentions of alcohol use, fem reader (sorry), realization of feelings mid-coitous, someone please stop me from writing more vanilla porn

suddenly just really needed to write this? idk man. based off the song sleeping in my t-shirt by zak waters! because apparently i only write fics abt boys getting turned on by their partner wearing their clothes.

"fuck, i am so not excited to walk home. it's so cold outside."

"stay, then."

you both had only just slipped your underwear on when the words came from minghao, and you watched as he settled back into his pillows and lifted an arm for you to lay under, a far cry from what had happened on those pillows less than five minutes earlier. you thought of his hand on the back of your neck, pushing you into the mattress while he fucked you silly from behind, and you decided you must still be drunk when you spotted his shirt hanging off the side of the bed, pulled it over your head, and settled into his side.

the two of you exclusively met under the cover of nightfall, but you never slept. an unspoken agreement, that the two of you used each other to relieve stress and fill a need, not for comfort or love. minghao was a man of few words. you never spoke to him much outside of quick conversations and whatever filthy shit he felt like saying while you were under him, but he seemed intelligent and kind. you met him the first time at a school run art show that you were both in. you really loved his paintings, and he made an insightful comment about the societal implications of your mixed media sculpture before you were dragging each other into a bathroom.

minghao was fun, you thought. you were compatible, probably, considering how good of a lay he was, but it had never even crossed your mind to let it go any further than that. you knew he felt the same way - minghao was someone that couldn't not be honest - happy to call upon you at 1 in the morning when he was feeling needy, or to come home with you when you ran into each other at a party, but always walking you to his apartment building's entrance or slipping out of your dorm room before either of you could even think about spending the night. he was candid. knew what he wanted. you did, too, and neither of you thought you wanted anything more than you had.

when minghao was suddenly ripped from sleep by his hangover, he winced into his palm and rolled out of bed. stumbling only once, he made his way to the bathroom to chug a glass of water and immediately take a piss. he pushed a thumb between his eyebrows to attempt to alleviate some pressure, a steadying hand landing the wall in the hall outside his bedroom.

he blinked and looked into his room, noticing the figure on his bed for the first time since waking. you were framed by the doorway, your beautiful curves barely hidden under his own shirt. the thin fabric cascaded down your skin in a way that made gravity look like an artist and you it's canvas. his cloudy brain felt clear, suddenly, and he struggled to understand why. minghao stared at your form, knowing full well that you could make his hot blood pump, but since when did you start making his heart race?

he closed his door behind him as quietly as he could. almost cautiously, minghao returned to his bed, pulling at the loose covers until they were over both of your bodies. he stared at your sleeping face for a moment, wondering if he had ever seen anything so beautiful in his life. his fingers itched for a paintbrush as he hovered over you, elbows planted on either side of your ribcage. you stirred slightly, and he shoveled a hand under your waist and pulled you into his chest, placing a gentle kiss on your cheek.

as you awoke, you squinted at minghao's ear, recognizing it but still slightly confused. you resigned to letting out a soft groan as his lips moved to your neck. "what's all this?"

"you stayed the night," minghao said, pulling back to let his eyes flick across your face, brushing your hair from your lips as your arms settled around his shoulders. the early morning light that peeked through his curtains made you think that it was far too soon after you had passed out to be awake again, but you thought it highlighted his features well. "you never stay the night."

you kept squinting at him, doing your best to remember the night before as your fingers carded through his hair. "you told me to."

the smile on his lips was brief, but didn't go unnoticed. he kissed down your jaw, expertly pulling a small noise of enjoyment from your lips, his fingers splaying under his shirt across your waist, feeling as much of you as he could before skating it over your ass and down your thigh. you gasped when he bit at the vein below your ear, causing your thighs to part just enough for him to slip his hand over your clothed core. you groaned again, wiggling your hips slightly as you stretched, still working through your sleepiness.

"are you not satisfied?" you joked, your voice laced with the fragments of a yawn. you felt his lips part on your neck, and you had half a mind to believe he was smiling as he slowly began rubbing you above the fabric of your underwear.

"i don't think i can ever get enough of you."

a low moan left your dry lips, and you bit at them as he teased you, gripping any part of him you could - his hair, shoulders, bicep. it took a moment, but your arousal woke soon after you. your limbs tingled in anticipation as his long, lean fingers ran across your slit, giving you less than you wanted. "minghao, please."

"shh," he brought his face to yours, planting a kiss on your lips between your whimpers. "patience."

minghao knew you. and he knew your patience was thin. even still, he enjoyed the noises that fell from you as he circled your clit, feeling the moisture gather at your perfect tight hole. swiftly, he pulled aside your panties and swirled his middle finger in your juices, pushing the prepared finger into you. you gasped, clutching him closer. "f-fuck."

he admired the way your eyebrows knit together, your eyes squeezed shut. he kissed along your neck again, making your curl your nails into the back of his neck, surely leaving crescent moon imprints as he pumped a finger into you, his palm rubbing against you in a way that made you squirm. your breath was labored, maybe still partially asleep, and you couldn't help the sustained moan that tumbled from your lips when he added his ring finger. you wondered, briefly, how a man's hand could feel as good as his. how he managed to park you right outside of an orgasm just by pumping a couple fingers into your vaguely sore pussy.

and he kissed you. it wasn't the first time, of course, your mouths had been all over each other many times before. but the way he slotted his lips against yours made you whine, thighs squeezing shakily around his wrist. he slowed his pumping slightly, working your lips into the open mouthed kisses he craved from you. you gasped into his mouth, and he curled his fingers in you, pushing skillfully against his favorite spot of yours. your eyes opened, eyebrows raised and staring at him in awe of the feeling. he watched you a moment, hair splayed across his pillow, and wondered how many times he had underappreciated this view.

"h-hao-"

he kissed you quickly. "yes?"

"please let me cum."

he looked at the clock on his bedside table. "it's only six in the morning and you wanna cum?"

you pushed a frustrated closed fist against his chest. "you started this, you better finish it."

normally, your attitude would have earned you an extra five minutes of teasing and a stinging red handprint on your ass, but minghao found your blown out pupils and your sleep riddled gaze endearing. he kissed you again, curling his fingers as he pumped into you. you let out a squeal, hands moving from his chest to his shoulders to his neck, trying to grip any amount of him as you tried to hold on through your orgasm. you trembled as his fingers slowed in you, letting him place gentle kisses all across your face. you blushed, unused to the intimacy. if you were in a less dazed state, you would have commented on it, but minghao's palm kept you quiet as it unhurriedly rubbed against your almost overstimulated nub, fingers remaining in you.

despite your release, you ground against his hand, biting at your lip again. the corner of minghao's mouth quirked upwards, pleased with your responsiveness. "do me a favor, baby."

you blinked, your hands landing on his chest as he began pumping his fingers again. "what kind?" you asked, forcing the words out instead of the whines that wanted to escape you.

"grab a rubber."

your hand immediately went to the table, feeling for the drawer handle. you peeked once to pull it open before shoving a hand into the abyss, fumbling for the familiar foil packet. minghao admired the way your chest rose and fell, the way your thighs moved slightly as he worked you up again. the way your eyes shone at him slightly when you successfully presented a condom to him. he chuckled lightly, his hand never leaving your core as he forced his boxer briefs down his hips. he pulled back until he was sitting between your legs, discarding his underwear. "you know where it goes."

your back arched at his fingers brushing against a sensitive spot before he helped you up, pulling you by the arm with his free hand, the angle of his fingers changing and pulling a wanton moan from your lips. with half lidded eyes, you ripped the shirt from your body, minghao's hand running up your side to caress a mound while you tore open the condom and rolled it down his length, hands lingering on the member as you felt your mouth water. he scissored his fingers in you before squeezing your thigh and pulling the fingers out. you watched, mouth slightly agape, as he sucked your juices off his own hand.

you hardly even registered him pulling your panties down your legs, but every part of you felt on fire as he pushed you back onto the bed, caging you in as he readied himself at your entrance.

you were gripping his jaw when his hips pushed into yours, and you moaned into his parted lips. "fuck, you feel good."

minghao would have returned the sentiment if he could think of anything to say, but his mind was blank as he sank into you, suddenly realizing that the feeling of you was much more intoxicating than any liquor he had ever had. he slipped his hands under you, lifting your bare chest to press against his, wrapping his arms around your body. you whined as he thrusted into you, his pelvis rubbing against your sensitive nub, your fingers grasping at his jaw and sinking into the hair at his nape as he groaned against your lips.

"fuck, hao-" feeling your breath, short and hot against his ear, was the only thing that made him realize his forehead had sunk to the pillow beside you. he attempted to compose himself, pulling back, pressing a hand into your hip and pushing into you slower than his previous pace. your hands stayed on his neck, and he stared down at you.

"the sun suits you," he said. and with only those four words, you realized that minghao needed more from you than your previously agreed upon arrangement. you also realized that you might need more, too. your fingers brushed aside the hair falling over his brow, and you pulled him back down to kiss you. despite the fact that he never asked, and you never responded, he knew your lips on his was a confirmation. the resounding yes you had given him was never vocalised, but he tasted it on your tongue as it fought with his, felt the electricity in your fingers as they dug into his hair and gripped at his shoulders. he knew it from the way your legs wrapped around his hips, pulling him even closer to you.

you gasped when his pace quickened slightly, the familiar coil winding tightly in your gut. "minghao," you whined, pressing your head into the pillow. "right there."

he let out a delicious low groan at the way you tightened around him, his hips almost stuttering to a stop just then. his grip surely bruised your hip as he held his own end back, continuing to roll into you until you were babbling against his lips, a white hot wave washing over your body. you quaked against him, and he held your jaw steady, foreheads together, as your tight walls milked him dry.

you were panting, staring up his eyelashes against his cheek. you had always thought minghao looked intimidating, even when he was laying you out. but, in this moment, as he opened his eyes slowly, all you saw was a boy finally giving into something he wanted.

he kissed you, his lips pressing gently against yours. you let out a small noise when his lips moved, letting your head fall to the side as he worked down your neck again. you whined as he slipped out of you, desperately trying to keep your grip on one of his hands as he sat up to trash the rubber. he laced his fingers with yours, his other hand running up your torso and his lips settling on the peak of a breast.

"minghao," you warned, gripping his hand tighter. again, you could have sworn you felt him smile against your skin as he worked his way down your body. he ran his hand down your thigh, pushing it to the side to open you up. "w-what are you doing?"

"nothing," he muttered against your inner thigh, slipping his hand from yours to push your other thigh out of his way. he placed kisses on your thigh in a line, pointed directly to your core. your hands gripped at the sheets, at his hair, anything they could when he licked a stripe up your slit. you moaned, your back arching off the mattress as he pulled your thighs over his shoulders.

his tongue gently lapped at your spent pussy, and it took everything in you to not squeeze his head between your thighs every time the tip of his tongue flicked against your clit.

minghao knew your body better than anyone. he knew your weaknesses and your sensitive spots. his lips felt like worship, and his hands ran up your body like he was making sure you didn't drift away. you wrapped your fingers around one of his hands, sighing when he laced his fingers with yours. "what did i do to deserve this?"

you caught a moment of eye contact when he looked up to you, giving you a bit of reprieve from his tongue against your core. "stayed over."

a laugh fell from your lips. "is that all?"

he ran his tongue through your folds again, eyes meeting yours. "be your beautiful self."

your face burned, partially from the state he had brought you to with his mouth, and somewhat because of the words that left his lips. a moan surprised you on its way out your lips as he slipped a digit into you, curling directly into your g spot. your knuckles turned white against his as he dug a third orgasm from you, your legs shaking helplessly as he held his tongue against you.

it took you yanking on minghao's hair before he pulled away from you, and you panted with your head buried in his pillows. "c'mere."

you didn't have to ask twice. minghao licked his lips and wiped at them briefly, licking his finger clean again, then wasted no time as he crawled back up to lay with you. your arms found his shoulders easily and he wrapped his around your torso, pulling you into his chest as he settled. your heart skipped a beat when he pressed a kiss against your cheek, and you wondered what the hell you had been doing keeping him as a booty call when he could make love like that.

"do you wanna get breakfast?"

you couldn't help but laugh at the sudden question.

"later, i mean," minghao clarified. "after more sleep."

"are you asking me out, hao?"

it was his turn to laugh, his hand running down your side. "uh, yeah. i am, i guess."

you smiled, your palm resting on his jaw as you kissed him. "i'd love to."

#HAHAHA #im so sorry #hao <333333 yk #seventeen imagines #seventeen scenarios #seventeen smut #xu minghao imagines #xu minghao scenarios #the8 imagines #the8 scenarios #the8 smut #minghao smut #xu minghao smut #i wrote dis #hao #when will i stop using the warnings section like tags on ao3 #never probably

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whumpingcrow · 3 years ago

Text

Ink Poisoning - Chapter 10

"Garbage Person"

CW: bbu and everything in relation to that, drugs/alcohol (explicit), injury description, blood, sick whumpee, anxiety attack, amputation mention (vague), noncon mention, conditioned whumpee, food mention (let me know if I missed anything!)

Nicko had been working on a tattoo when Ben called him. The skin underneath him belonged to a slightly older woman, a blonde with pink lipstick on her teeth that he could see every time she smiled at him. She was annoying, and she was flirting with him, which made her even more annoying. The first time his phone rang, he ignored it completely, too consumed in his work to even look up. Secretly, he was wishing that he was tattooing Gio instead. It had been a little over a week since Nicko made him sick by icing him out, and Nicko hadn't allowed himself to bring him back to the shop. Instead, it became his mission to make him better. He made him soup, he let him sleep in his bed, he even helped him take a bath the first day he was sick.

That had been difficult. Nicko had never been "nice", he knew that about himself. He was notoriously an asshole, famously short tempered and foul mouthed. He knew what empathy was, he could feel it, but it was just...rare. The knowledge that others had emotions and feelings didn't matter to him, most of the time. But when he gave Gio a bath, he'd never felt worse for someone in his entire life. Gio could hardly keep himself upright, couldn't even keep his eyes open, when Nicko undressed him and helped him into the water. Nicko hadn't washed the blood off of his face the night before, hadn't wanted to move him around and hurt him more than he was, so when he wet a rag and tried to gently wipe the dried blood off, he wanted to cry right along with Gio. He held his head still with one hand on his jaw as he ran the towel over the bridge of his nose, over his cheekbones, very carefully under his eyes, wiping away some of his tears along with the blood. Nicko couldn't believe he'd hurt him so badly. He felt even worse when Gio's face was clean and he could see the bruises he'd left there. Then Nicko washed his hair, there was blood there, too, somehow, and then he just sat outside of the bathtub and let Gio warm up in the water for a few more minutes. He couldn't stop crying.

"I'm sorry, sir," he whimpered out, using his wrists to push away the tears, directing his huge, teary eyes at Nicko. He looked hopeless, his chocolate brown eyes dulled down with fear and sadness. Nicko reached out and traced his thumb down Gio's face tenderly. He looked so young, with his hair slicked back out of his face and his huge eyes and his cheeks and nose flushed red from crying and his fever. His file didn't include an age when Nicko got him, but he couldn't have been more than 20.

"You shouldn't be sorry, Gio. Really, I'm the one who messed up. I'm..." He paused, frowning to himself. The words didn't sound right in his head, he hadn't used them earnestly enough all that often, so it was sort of alien to him. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you."

Gio looked positively perplexed, like he was just as much as used to hearing apologies as Nicko was at giving them. "S...Sir?" He squeaked.

"When I came back out and saw you outside like that, all bloody and fucking tied up...God, Gio, I was just disgusted." He could see Gio's face fall even more, and his heart sank. "No! No, not of you! I was disgusted in myself. I was disgusted that I did something so awful to you. And I'm sorry."

After that, Nicko made him rest, and he nursed him back to health. It was the least he could do, after putting him in that condition in the first place. That morning, he was up with Nicko, asking if he could go with him to work, if he would finish his tattoo. Nicko thought it was adorable, but he still had bruises and still seemed a little out of it, so Nicko made him stay home. He was regretting it now, as the blonde bimbo told him "Don't be afraid to hurt me, I don't mind a little pain" with a wink.

The second time his phone rang, he told the blonde to give him a moment, pulling off his gloves as he stood up and walked into the next room to answer the phone.

"What Ben? I'm working."

"Hey, uh...you didn't take Gio with you to work, did you?" Ben's voice was a little nervous, and Nicko was instantly worried.

"No, I left him there. Is he not there?"

"Um..."

"Ben is he there or not?!"

"I thought I saw him earlier, but I can't find him now. I think he jumped ship, dude."

Nicko had never had an anxiety attack before. Nervous, sure. Fits of rage, all the time. But he'd never felt the tight rubber bands around his lungs feeling that took his breath away when Ben said that. So he hung up the phone and left through the back, all but sprinting to his car. It was a miracle he got home in one piece, with how fast he was driving and how badly his hands were shaking. Gio jumped ship. Gio hates you because of how badly you hurt him. You scared him so bad he ran away. You awful person. You horrible, garbage person. The anxiety only worsened when he got home and Gio really was gone, he wasn't just hiding out somewhere like he sometimes did. Nicko pictured him, his huge, horrified eyes, how small he was, how he was probably out there scared and alone and someone might hurt him and Nicko wasn't there to protect him. You should have just taken him to work with you. This wouldn't have happened if he came with you. This is all your fault. Garbage person.

It wasn't until after he had calmed down and hours after Salem was home that Nicko even realized any of his things were missing. He was exhausted, the second he explained to Salem what had happened there was a fight, with rightfully placed blame on Nicko that he was wrongfully defensive about, as always. With his nerves shot and beyond tired from his incessant anger, he got drunk. It was a bad habit, his drinking in an attempt to mute his anger. But it was better than picking another fight with Salem to blow of some steam, and it felt better than the newfound anxiety every time he thought about Gio.

It was when he was drunk that he decided to paint, to make a mess with some red without actually hurting anyone again, and he noticed a few of his paintbrushes were gone. No one ever touched his art supplies (especially not Gio, and especially not after Nicko once made a joke about cutting off his fingers if he decided to be a thief and take his things), and he was very particular about how it was all organized. So when he realized they weren't where he'd left them, even in his drunken stupor, he could tell that something was wrong. So he looked around more, and he was missing more than just his brushes. His room had basically been ransacked, and he didn't know how he hadn't noticed before just then. So he rushed back out to the kitchen, where Ben and Salem were both standing around talking.

When he opened the liquor cabinet (for the second time in the last hour, and he wondered again how he had failed to notice something so important) he was missing a bottle of vodka and the jar of cash he and Rory secretly added to for party funds was empty. There was only one other person who knew about it, and then it clicked.

"Nicko," Ben started in careful disdain, "shouldn't we be doing something besides...you know...drinking?"

"Gio didn't run away."

Salem scoffed at him. "Right. Why would he want to run away from you?"

Nicko shook his head, trying to rub some of the stress out of his face. "No, you idiot. Rory was here. She took my stuff. She took my art shit, she took my cash, she took Gio."

Ben was instantly pale, and Salem stood from his chair and began pacing. It was unspoken, but they were all thinking the same thing, more or less. Rory had a problem, she had ever since they all met sophomore year at a party, and she had never downplayed it or try to make it less obvious. Sober Rory was a rare occasion, despite at some point everyone telling her she should at least talk to someone, go to a meeting, go to rehab. So at some point, their persistence fizzled out and they stopped trying so hard, and she was happier that way, anyway. Nicko had tried a few times to give her somewhat of an intervention, but in the end he decided the only thing he had the power to do was be there with her, whatever she decided to do. Yeah, because you could be all the help she needed? You, the garbage person? Right.

Nicko spent the rest of that night, all the way through morning, driving to places she might be. Her friends hadn't heard from her in days, they'd said, and the dealer that they had been going to together said she'd stopped by the night Nicko kicked her out and bought some weed. After that, he drove up and down neighborhoods all over the city looking for her car. But he had no luck, and he returned home the next morning without Gio or any idea where he was.

Over the course of the next two weeks, Nicko starting failing his classes. He couldn't bring himself to care much about his assignments when Gio was still missing, somewhere with Rory, probably being pumped with whatever she was using. Don't forget that it's your fault. He's gone because of you're shitty decisions.

He also got fired from his apprentice at the tattoo shop, the blonde he was working on didn't particularly like him running out on her and not finishing her piece, and his boss didn't like it either. He couldn't really bring himself to care that much about it. His job, his school, none of that was important to him anymore. Not as important as Giovanni, who was his responsibility and was probably miserable and scared because of him.

So he mostly stayed hidden in his room, starting paintings but never finishing them, tattooing senseless things on himself out of boredom, laying in bed doing nothing. He drove around a lot, too, looking for anything that would tell him where Rory was. He got pulled over three times, he spent a ridiculous amount of money on gas, and he never found Gio.

The guilt was suffocating. Every morning when he woke up alone in his bed he was reminded that Gio was missing, and then again when he got up and saw his empty beanbag, and knowing that he wasn't there because Nicko hadn't kept a good enough eye on him was crushing.

At some point, even Salem noticed how much Gio being gone was eating Nicko up, because he grudgingly came into his room one night, hovering in the doorway, asking Nicko if he was ok. Nicko was sitting on his bed, eyes droopy from however much booze he'd had that day, and for the first time since Salem had known him, he looked painfully human.

"I was responsible for him," Nicko admitted, "if Rory hurts him...if something bad happens to him..." He didn't finish his thought, but Salem had an idea of what he was going to say: that it would be his fault.

"Nicko, whatever Rory does is not up to you. You've done everything you can to find him, that's all that you can do." It was strange for him to be comforting Nicko, of all people, especially after he had found out that he'd assaulted Gio and left him outside in the cold until he got sick. After that, whatever little respect Salem had for Nicko was gone, and now it was being replaced by pity.

But Nicko didn't want his pity, he didn't want to be comforted by anyone. He didn't deserve that. So he told Salem to get out, to just leave him alone. Only Salem, stupid, relentlessly nice Salem refused to leave, and instead he crossed the room and sat down next to him on his bed.

"He likes you a lot, Nicko. Did you know that?"

Nicko did know, unfortunately. He vividly remembered one of the nights when Gio was sick, when he turned over in bed and pressed himself close to Nicko and told him he was his favorite, that it hurt him when he couldn't be around him all the time. And now he was gone. And it was Nicko's fault. "Yeah, I know. He's sort of dumb in that way, isn't he?"

Salem laughed at him, mostly because he didn't know when Nicko became so self aware. "No, I don't think so. I think he's just miraculously good at seeing the best parts of people. He likes Rory, too. Even after...you know, even though she got him high all the time." Nicko let out a long, heavy sigh, and Salem followed suit. "I'm telling you that because he knows that none of this is your fault. I mean, to him, you fucking walk on water. You couldn't ever do anything wrong. So, wherever he is, he isn't blaming you. No one here is blaming you either."

Nicko didn't believe him, but he didn't have the energy to argue against him. So instead, he just said "ok", and then Salem left. Nicko spent the next twenty or so minutes drinking and sketching lazily, dragging pencils across a paper only as a means to distract himself. Everything he drew was ugly, every drink tasted awful, life was miserable. He thought back to what Salem had said, that Gio liked him a lot, and then he thought again of Gio whispering in the dark, "you're my favorite person, Nicko," and his heart broke all over again. He trusted you and you put him in danger. He liked you and you didn't even fucking care, you god awful garbage person.

He was pulled out of his spiraling, self hating thoughts by a knock at the front door. He almost wanted to ignore it, didn't want to ever see or speak to anyone ever again, knowing he would probably end up hurting whoever it was in the end anyway, like he did to everyone he'd ever been around. But then he decided against it, and he stumbled down the hallway with his beer still in hand.

Giovanni sank to his knees in the same instant that Nicko opened the door, so fast that Nicko didn't even realize it was him at first. Only when Gio looked up at him from his place on the snowy porch and started to choke out a familiar sounding apology did it click that it was him. He looked awful, his pale skin peppered with small scrapes and his neck littered with what looked like hickeys, the usual bags under his eyes were an even darker shade of purple, his lips were cracked and bloody, and his face had hollowed out dramatically.

"I'm so s-s-sorry that I left, Nicko," he was rushing out, tears threatening to fall from his frightened round eyes, "ple...please forgive me, sir, please take m-me back-"

Then, Nicko was on his knees too, reaching out to take Gio's face in his hands, frowning at him when he flinched away just a little. Once Nicko's hands were on him, he really couldn't hold back the tears anymore, staring at Nicko as they slipped down his face and onto Nicko's hands. He was afraid at Nicko's silence, he would prefer for him to just start yelling already so that they could get the punishment over with and Gio could maybe be allowed to sleep after. He was exhausted. But Nicko only kept staring at him, almost in disbelief.

Then, as if he remembered that Gio was still outside, kneeling in a pile of snow, he stood up and pulled Gio carefully to his feet, helping him across the threshold so he could shut the door and keep the cold out. Once he was inside, and upright, Nicko got a better look at him, and he was physically upset at how rough he looked. Then he noticed how badly Gio was shaking, and how he was fidgeting with the hem of his shirt nervously as he stared at Nicko. He realized then that he hadn't said anything, and Gio had apologized because he thought he was in trouble, so Nicko being completely silent was probably freaking him out. Gio let out a soft whine when Nicko stepped closer and pulled him against his chest.

"I was so worried about you, Gio," he whispered, swaying side to side, "I looked all over...I'm so sorry I let her get you. I'm so sorry."

Before Gio could even begin to protest the apology, Salem came down the hallway and gasped when he saw Gio all wrapped up in Nicko's arms. "You came back?" He breathed. Gio nodded as much as he could in Nicko's snug embrace. Nicko pulled away then, brushing Gio's hair out of his face and looking at him with a frown.

"Come on, let's get you some food. Anything you want." He pulled Gio behind him into the kitchen, forcing him to sit in a chair. Gio was confused, wasn't sure why he wasn't being berated with pain and cruel words for running off and being gone for so long. He watched as Nicko looked through the fridge, then jumped when the chair next to him screeched against the hardwood floor as Salem sat down.

"Are you ok?" He asked Gio softly, a concerned frown on his face. Gio was happy to see his kind face, but the question made his heart lurch uncomfortably in his chest. He wasn't ok, his body ached all over, everything felt uncomfortably fuzzy and far away from the drugs that hadn't worn off yet, his fatigue was so bad he felt like sobbing every time he had to move his tired muscles. More than anything he was confused, like always, and it was much too difficult to try and figure out why Nicko was being nice to him and trying to give him food like a reward when he had run away and been gone for so long.

"You want pizza, Gio?" Nicko called from the freezer, already pulling out a frozen pizza and setting it on the counter. Gio didn't answer either of their questions, it felt like his any words that he wanted to say were shards of broken glass on his tongue, and it would only hurt him and everyone around him if he started to talk. It was mostly because his mind was a mess of racing thoughts about Rory and Oscar and all the awful things they did to him and how badly it hurt and how scared he was and how horrible he felt for worrying Nicko.

His silence made them both uneasy, and Nicko set the pizza box down with a thud on the table in front of Gio, then he crouched down next to him, placing his hand on his thigh. Giovanni squeezed his eyes shut in response, Nicko noticed his shoulders began to rise and fall quicker in his uneven breathing.

"What's wrong, darling?" Nicko tried, keeping his voice soft and level. Gio cringed, turning his face away from him. "Talk to me, Gio. Please."

Giovanni let out a tiny whimper, shaking his head. Salem and Nicko shared a nervous glance. Salem shrugged his shoulders hopelessly, not sure how to comfort Gio or make him talk anymore than Nicko did.

So, without any other idea of what to do, Nicko reached up and tilted Gio's face towards him, even though he didn't open his eyes. "Gio, I can't help you feel better if you don't tell me what's wrong. I want to help you but you have to tell me how."

Now, Gio opened his eyes, his frown deepening when he looked at Nicko. Within half a second his eyes were overflowing with tears and his shaking went from a tiny shiver to violent tremors up and down his body. "I...I don't know what's wrong." He admitted. His voice was a hoarse whisper, and Nicko pulled his hand away from his face after he spoke. Gio burst into tears just then, tilting his head down as he sobbed out weakly. "I'm s-sorry, I'm so so stupid I'm so f-fucking stupid I'm-"

Nicko shut him up by standing up and wrapping his arms around him again, pulling his head against his stomach and petting through his hair softly. Salem watched them with his hand over his mouth, obviously troubled at Gio's hysteria. "It's ok, Gio," Nicko soothed him, "you're not stupid. I'm not upset with you. I just want to help."

Gio wasn't really listening, couldn't hear anything over his ragged breathing and his sobs that were muffled by Nicko's clothes. When Nicko realized he wasn't going to calm down like that, he pulled off of him, looking down at his tears stained face. It's all your fault he's crying right now. Look at how broken he is because of you.

"You're not stupid, Giovanni. You hear me?"

The sternness to Nicko's voice snapped Gio out of it a little, he forced his mouth closed and nodded up at him reflexively. Then, Nicko sighed softly and turned away from him altogether. He grabbed the pizza, busying himself with that instead of having to look at how ruined he made Gio. He was only turned away for a minute or two before Salem cleared his throat.

"Um, Nicko?" He said. "I don't think he's really hungry."

When Nicko turned to see what Salem was talking about, and Gio had his head rested against the table, passed out cold. Nicko hadn't thought that he might be tired, and he felt like an asshole for not even checking with him. With a huff, he turned off the oven and threw the pizza carelessly back into the freezer. When Nicko picked Gio up he didn't even stir, completely limp when Nicko scooped him out of the chair and pulled him against his chest.

Seeing Gio back in his bed was more relieving than Nicko had anticipated, and once he was curled up under the covers all Nicko could do was stare at him. He was broken and banged up and looked seconds away from death in a lot of ways, but Nicko felt like he'd never seen anything as beautiful as Gio passed out under his covers. Suddenly, the art block he'd had since Gio had been gone dissipated, and Nicko was as quiet as he could be as he got out a canvas and what little art supplies Rory left him with.

Hours later, Gio woke up to find Nicko asleep next to him, covered in splotches of paint on his face and hands and all over his clothes. He sat up just a little, and then noticed the huge painting across the room. Through the dark he couldn't tell what it was, but it made him smile nonetheless. With a yawn, he layed back down, a little closer to Nicko than he was when he woke up. When Nicko reached out and grabbed onto his hand, Gio tensed up just a little, only until he laced his fingers in between Gio's and held onto his hand gently. Gio looked up at him only to see him still peacefully sleeping, and he realized he probably thought he was someone else, maybe Rory. Still, Gio happily pushed himself closer, resting his head against Nicko's shoulder and keeping his grip on his hand tight.

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inkwell1013 · 4 years ago

Text

Snapshots - Persona 5

Pairings: Yusuke Kitagawa & Yusuke Kitagawa’s mother, Yusuke Kitagawa & Ren/Akira, Yusuke Kitagawa & Madarame, Yusuke Kitagawa & Natsuhiko (all plationic/familial)

Genre: Angst, shameless angst, one shot, found family, 5+1 fic.

Word count: 6.2k

Warnings: This fic deals with some heavy topics, including child abuse, emotional abuse, meltdowns, the death of a parent, a mention of suicide, unhealthy eating habits and alcohol abuse.

Summary: There’s a funny thing about memories. Some of clear and defined – like a photograph – while others are hazy and vague like a half-finished sketch. Still, they define a person just as much as the choices they make or the friends they keep. All of Yusuke's most important memories are about Madarame. Thinking back on his life, he wondered how he missed all the red flags.

Five moments in Yusuke's life chronically his life with Madarame and one moment after he leaves him.

- - - - -

Age 3

“Mama, play with me,” whined Yusuke, tugging on his mother’s sleeve.

His mother sighed, setting her paintbrush down on her easel. “I can’t play with you right now Yusuke.”

Yusuke pouted. “But I want to play!”

“Why don’t you draw instead?” she said. “I promise I’ll play with you once I’ve finished this painting. Okay?”

Yusuke beamed. “Okay, Mama.”

She gave him an easy smile and fetched his crayons and some paper from the shelf. She passed them over to him and went to get some more paint. Yusuke sat down at the table and started scribbling. Slowly, the picture began to take form. A neat brick house with a wild garden next to it.

It was a world away from the decrepit house they shared with Madarame. The shack was nailed together from sheets of scrap metal and was so unstable that a particularly strong gust of wind could have knocked it over.

Two people were standing in front of the house. A dark-haired woman and a small boy. Him and his mama. Just the two of them. They would finally be happy there away from everyone else. Away from Madarame.

Yusuke didn’t like Madarame. He was scary. Mama tried to make them spend time together, but Yusuke would always throw a tantrum and demand to be let go. She would always concede and let him run off, but he knew she and Madarame weren’t pleased about it.

“What is your painting going to be Mama?” he asked, as he coloured in the sky a bright blue. He imagined that they would live far out in the country, away from the grey skies of Tokyo.

“It’s a surprise!” she answered, tapping him on the nose as she walked back to her easel. “But it’s going to be a present for you.”

“A present for me? Can I see it?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Not until it’s done. You can’t know what it is, because then it wouldn’t be a surprise.”

Yusuke went back to his drawing.

After a few minutes, Yusuke realised that he was thirsty. He turned around in his chair. “Mama, can I go get a drink?” he asked.

She didn’t say anything. She just stood there, holding onto the easel and quivering. He hurried over and gave her a little shake to get her attention.

“Mama!” he cried. “Are you okay?”

She convulsed and fell backwards, hitting the ground with a heavy thud. Her body and twitched, as if there were electricity flowing through her veins. Yusuke didn’t know what to do. He tried to shake her awake, but that just made her tremble even more. He yelled Madarame’s name until his throat hurt but he didn’t come to help.

Yusuke didn’t remember much after that. Everything was hazy, like a drawing smeared over with chalk dust. He remembered a dark figure loitering in the doorway, it’s face bland and uncaring. It stood there for a good few minutes. Standing. Staring. Waiting.

By the time that she had stopped shaking, it was gone. Yusuke was crying. Then, he heard sirens. He slammed his hands over his ears and closed his eyes, trying to block out the terrible noise. The sound dimmed but wasn’t gone completely. He curled up into a ball and rocked himself, trying to calm the swirling emotions in his chest.

He had been doing that for some time when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Reluctantly, he opened his eyes, hoping it would be his mother. Instead, his eyes met with those of a stranger. Startled, he shuffled backwards. The man was wearing a dark green uniform and had a kind-looking face.

“Hey kid,” he said softly. “Are you back in the real world?”

Yusuke gave a hesitant nod. “That’s good,” continued the stranger. “You gave us a real scare there but your daddy told us not to worry.”

Yusuke furrowed his brows. “I don’t have a daddy,” he mumbled.

“Your grandpa then?” Yusuke said nothing, just shaking his head.

“No grandpa either? Then who’s the man downstairs?”

“Madarame is Mama’s friend,” said Yusuke.

He looked to his mother, who was still lying on the floor. There was dust in her long dark hair, which was splayed out above her head. She wasn’t shaking anymore, which was good.

“Can I talk to my mama?” he asked. “She fell asleep, but she’ll be awake by now.”

“I don’t know how to tell you this kid…” The man looked over to his friend, who was knelt next to Yusuke’s mother. The woman, who was wearing the same uniform as him, shook her head. The man bit his lip and held out his hand to pull Yusuke to his feet.

“Let’s go downstairs,” he said.

“I don’t understand… Is she going to be okay?”

The man shook his head. “I’m so sorry. Your mother has passed away.”

Yusuke knew at that moment - when everything he knew came crashing down around him – that they would never have that perfect crayon scribbled life.

Age 7

Yusuke was bored of waiting for Madarame to finish painting, so he decided to explore. He was curious to see what he would uncover in the drafty, old shack. Maybe there would be buried treasure under the floorboards or a wild beast living in the basement.

Yusuke always had an overactive imagination. He made stuff up for the fun of seeing where his mind would lead him. Sometimes it would take him to faraway fantasy lands full of awe and magic. Other times he would find himself somewhere mysterious and dark, full of horrifying creatures - like the dark shadow that watched his mother die.

He was so deep in his head that he nearly slammed headfirst into an unfamiliar door.

It was covered in pretty peacock feathers, all painted in swirls of blue and gold. He ran his fingers along the ridges and crevices in the paint, marvelling at the way it was layered. The style and technique were nothing like Madarame's and it made him wonder who painted it. Could it have been one of his previous students?

He stood on the tips of his toes and grabbed a hold of the handle. Just as he was about to swing open the door, someone grabbed him by his shoulders and pulled him backwards. He whipped his head around and saw that it was Madarame.

“Sensei, what’s in this room?” he asked.

Madarame slapped him so hard that Yusuke was knocked to the floor.

Still reeling from the shock and confusion, Yusuke raised a shaky hand to his cheek. It hurt to touch.

“You are not allowed in that room,” growled Madarame. “Do you understand me?”

Yusuke nodded through the tears which threatened to fall from his face.

You are not gonna cry. You are not gonna cry. You are not gonna cry.

Maybe if he repeated it enough, it would be true.

Madarame stormed off in a violent temper, leaving a shaken-up Yusuke to continue with his day like everything was normal. He went to eat dinner with his fellow pupils. Natsuhiko raised an eyebrow at Yusuke’s bright red cheek but said nothing, handing him his food wordlessly. The rest of the pupils stayed similarly tight-lipped. Yusuke swore he could see the tiniest hint of sympathy on their faces.

After wolfing down his food, he excused himself and went to bed, thoughts swirling in his mind.

Why would Madarame hurt him like this? Madarame loved him. It didn’t make any sense.

The next morning, Madarame came down for breakfast like normal and Yusuke briefly wondered if he just imagined it all.

Everyone else found a reason to leave the room, leaving Madarame and Yusuke alone.

Madarame spoke first. “I'm sorry you’re upset Yusuke, but you have to understand this from my point of view. That room is where I keep all my old paintings and if you were to damage them, I would be upset. You understand, right? I didn’t want to hurt you.”

Yusuke gave a hesitant nod. Madarame stood up and patted him on the shoulder. “Good. I love you Yusuke,” he said, as he left.

Yusuke was still curious about the contents of the room (perhaps even more now that he knows it’s full of paintings) but when he went to investigate later that day, he found that it was sealed with a heavy padlock.

So, he left it alone and tried to push the ordeal to the back of his mind.

Age 9

Tidying up the studio was one of Yusuke’s chores. Madarame had never asked him to do it, but he always blamed Yusuke when it was messy in there, so Yusuke learned it was expected of him.

He dumped the pallets and paintbrushes in the sink. Turning on the tap, he watched the paint run together and wash down the sink.

Madarame usually let Yusuke paint with him - as long as he behaved - but Yusuke had been exiled from the studio for two weeks now. He understood though – Madarame had to focus on his pieces for the upcoming exhibition.

Madarame had always been short tempered but the past few days had been worse than usual. It was okay though. He was just stressed about the exhibit; Yusuke was sure everything would go back to normal once it was done.

It was quiet. Natsuhiko had gone on an errand, so it was just him and Madarame. The shack always felt empty now that there was only three people.

Madarame used to have lots of students back when Yusuke was younger but over time, they had all left. Yusuke didn't really know why but he didn't want to risk upsetting Madarame by asking.

A few open cans of paint were sitting on the windowsill next to a drying painting. Yusuke went to put them away but something about the painting made him stop to take a closer look.

Madarame had signed it, but it didn’t look anything like his style. Had he really painted this?

The longer Yusuke looked at it, the more confused he got. The strokes of the brush were familiar and…

The realisation hit him. This was Natsuhiko’s work. He had painted it and let Madarame sign it as if it was his own. Why would he do that? It was didn’t make sense.

He was so consumed by his thoughts that he didn’t even notice that he had knocked over the paint until it was seeping into the canvas. Panicking, he swept the it out of the pool of red, hoping it would still be salvageable.

Yusuke snatched a rag from the cupboard and desperately tried to wipe off the paint but it quickly became obvious that the painting was too damaged to be saved.

That was how Madarame had found him – scrubbing at the ruined painting with a rag, red stains all over his hands and forearms.

“I’m sorry,” he said, wiping tears from his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt and flapping his hands to calm himself. “It was an accident. I didn’t mean to.”

Madarame prowled over to him, like a wolf stalking its prey. Yusuke expected the slap but that didn’t make it hurt any less. “I’m sorry Sensei. I swear it was an accident,” he mumbled, tears welling in his eyes again.

“Apologising isn’t going to fix this Yusuke.”

“I know, I just… I can’t… I don’t...” He could barely get a word out. His hands were shaking uncontrollably.

“Oh, stop that!” snapped Madarame, grabbing Yusuke by the wrists. “I didn’t want to do this again but you’ve given me no choice. Come on.”

Yusuke allowed himself to be dragged down the corridor, thinking that Madarame would just yank him upstairs and maybe shut him in his room. That wouldn’t be so bad.

His eyes widened when Madarame pulled him past the stairs and a little further down the hall. He dug his heels into the ground and tried to wrench his arms from Madarame’s grasp. Madarame just tightened his grip, digging in his fingernails harshly.

“Sensei please!” he cried. “Please! I’m sorry.”

“You have to learn.”

“But I don’t want to!”

“Do you think I care what you want?” yelled Madarame, hauling Yusuke into the cupboard beneath the stairs. “This is for your own good.”

With that, Madarame slammed the door shut and locked it. Yusuke screamed to be let out, but was ignored. He tried to force open the door, but only succeeded in making himself exhausted. Defeated, he sunk down to the floor.

There was a miniscule crack in the wood which let in a little light, but it wasn’t enough to illuminate the dark cupboard. Of all the punishments he endured from Madarame, this was the one he hated the most. It was cramped and uncomfortable, and he never knew how long it would last. Madarame would let him out once he felt he had learned his lesson, whenever that was.

His wrists hurt where Madarame had dug in his nails. Yusuke wasn’t sure if they were bleeding or not – it was dark enough in the cupboard that he couldn’t discern the difference between the paint and the possible blood – but it hurt all the same. Why did Madarame hurt him like this?

It’s because you were bad.

Was that true? He wasn’t sure. He didn’t know anything anymore.

He had been in there for some time when the front door creaked open. Yusuke heard footsteps coming toward him. He peered through the crack and saw that it was Natsuhiko, home from running errands.

“Yusuke, where are you?” called Natsuhiko.

“I’m in here!” responded Yusuke. “Can you let me out?”

“Yusuke? I can’t believe that he… Not again. Are you hurt?”

“Only a little,” said Yusuke. “I might be bleeding.”

Natsuhiko mumbled something under his breath that Yusuke couldn’t quite hear. “I’m calling the police,” he said. “He’s been getting away with this for too long.”

He could hear Natsuhiko talking to the police, and even though he was pretending to be confident, his voice was trembled with every word. He was talking so quickly that Yusuke couldn’t make out the words.

There was a long pause and Natsuhiko mumbled a thank you. Heavy footsteps thundered down the stairs.

“What the hell are you doing?” shouted Madarame.

“I’ve called the police,” said Natsuhiko. “You can’t keep treating Yusuke like this. I won’t let you!”

“You have no right to tell me how to parent my son, Natsuhiko. This is a punishment – nothing more,” said Madarame.

“This is abuse!” yelled Natsuhiko. “I’ve being turning a blind eye to it for too long but this ends today.”

“I can’t believe you are doing this to me!” growled Madarame, grabbing Natsuhiko’s arm. “You’re going to regret this.”

“No!” roared Natsuhiko, snatching his arm out of Madarame’s grip. “You’re not going to control me anymore. I am done! I’m not that fifteen-year-old boy you picked up off the street. Not anymore. I’ve had enough of you using and manipulating me. This ends today.”

“I can’t believe you’re doing this,” said Madarame. “You don’t understand anything about the world Natsuhiko. You’re so naïve, still just a child.”

Natsuhiko violently shook his head. “I’m not a child anymore. I am nineteen and I know what I am talking about. You’ve been mistreating me for so long. You abused all of us. That’s why everyone else is gone. You hurt them so much they couldn’t stand to be here anymore. You’re the reason that Tatsuo has a panic attack every time he picks up a paintbrush. You’re the reason Miki shakes in terror whenever she’s around men. You’re the reason that Yukki killed herself!”

“YOU’RE INSANE!” bellowed Madarame, grabbing onto Natsuhiko’s collar. “Do you think I wanted that to happen? I loved you all like my own children.”

“You sure have a funny way of showing it. We’re terrified of you.”

“How dare you treat me like this! I took you in when no one else wanted you. I saw potential in you when you were just a homeless delinquent - when everyone saw you as trash – and this is how you treat me?” He sounded genuinely upset and Yusuke felt a little guilty.

Madarame continued. “You’ve always been manipulative but this is a new low, even for you. Prank calling 911 is a crime you know.”

“I didn’t…”

“Yes, you did. You called the police out of spite. All because you want revenge for nothing.”

Natsuhiko stared at him. “That’s not- I’m didn’t- You’re lying.”

“Let’s see what the cops think,” growled Madarame. “Whose story are they going to believe? The accomplished, famous artist or the high school drop out who never amounted to anything? I know who’s side I’d be on.”

There was a ring at the front door. “That will be them now. It’s not too late to back down.”

Natsuhiko faltered for a moment - for just long enough for Yusuke to think he had given up – before giving Madarame a sharp glare and shaking his head.

“Suit yourself,” said Madarame. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

***

The officer inspected Yusuke’s wrist. Traces of blood lingered amongst the red paint.

“You’re saying he did this?” asked the officer, gesturing towards Natsuhiko. Madarame gave a nod.

“I’m afraid so,” he sighed. "Natsuhiko tends to get a little aggressive with his brother when they play.”

“Bullshit!” yelled Natsuhiko. “You’re lying.”

“Don’t speak to your father like that,” snapped the officer.

“But nothing he’s saying is true,” said Natsuhiko desperately. “He’s the one who hurt Yusuke, not me.”

The officer sighed and stood up. “Calling the police under false pretences is a crime. I’ll let it slide this time, but don’t do it again. If we’re done here, I need to leave.”

“You can’t leave.” Natsuhiko grabbed a hold of the officer’s sleeve. “Please, he’s lying.”

“Let it go kid,” said the officer. He slammed the front door shut on his way out.

“Go to your room Yusuke,” hissed Madarame.

Yusuke eyes flicked between Madarame and Natsuhiko, unsure and frightened.

Natsuhiko gave him a brave smile. “I’ll be okay Yusuke,” he said. “You can go.”

***

Natsuhiko limped into Yusuke’s room a while later, a shadow of the person he was, voided of all his courage. His left eye was bruised purple and black, and his lip was split down the middle.

“What did he do to you?” asked Yusuke.

“Nothing he hasn’t done before,” said Natsuhiko, sitting on Yusuke’s bed. “If you could leave today, would you do it?” he asked, wiping the blood from his lip.

There was a long empty pause

“I would,” he admitted. “Are you going to leave?”

Natsuhiko stared up at the ceiling. “I don’t know.”

***

The next morning, Yusuke woke up to a single post-it note on his bedroom door. It had a phone number written on it, as well as two words.

I’m sorry.

Age 13

Yusuke had finished his first proper painting. He called it Grief. It had taken him hours and he was satisfied with it. The way the colours and shapes twisted upon each other was perfect and the colours were just right, which was satisfying. He had spent so long picking the right shades of blue and red that he worried he would have gone mad.

There was something profound about it. It was an apt representation of how he felt about his mothers passing - tornado of sorrow and bitterness. He barely remembered her but there was still an empty hole she had left in his heart that nothing seemed to fill.

Yusuke had proudly showed it to Madarame, rambling about his inspiration and the techniques he had used. Madarame gave him an impressed smile, that seemed ever so slightly forced.

Then, he asked Yusuke something strange. “Do you remember the day your mother died?”

“I don’t,” lied Yusuke. His recollection of the day was vague but there were shards of the memory clinging to his mind. He remembered a dark shadow, and the kind man who came to help him. He wanted to tell Madarame about the shadow, but he would never believe Yusuke.

Besides, the selfish part of his brain wanted to hold onto the final moments of his mothers life for himself.

“That’s good,” said Madarame. “I wouldn’t want you to remember something so... traumatic.” He tapped the painting. “Do you mind if I hold onto this for a little longer? I need to have a closer look before I can give you feedback.” Yusuke had been more than happy to let him keep the painting.

Two weeks later, Madarame held an abrupt exhibit. Yusuke had been excited to see what art would be on display. Madarame had been struggling with significant art block for weeks and Yusuke was glad that he was feeling creative again.

Yusuke was floored when he saw the principal piece of the exhibit. It was the painting he had poured his heart and soul into encased in a gaudy ,golden frame.

For a moment, he thought Madarame had put it up by accident. He glanced around. His mentor was just a few feet away, happily chatting with a critic. He hadn’t even noticed the mistake. Should he tell him?

Madarame walked over and stopped in front of the painting. He would have to realise his mistake now. Right? The critic studied the artwork with an enamoured look on his face. “This is a fascinating piece,” he said. “I'd love to know your inspiration.”

Madarame gave a serpent’s grin. “This piece is one of my favourites in this collection. It plays with the concept of fame and how it effects one’s ability to create art.”

The fan nodded. “I see. That makes a remarkable amount of sense.”

Bullshit! Everything Madarame had said was bullshit. He had stolen Yusuke’s art. Yusuke had ripped open his own heart and poured it onto the canvas, and Madarame had taken it like it meant nothing. Yusuke wouldn’t have minded Madarame taking credit for it either, as long as he had asked and hadn’t corrupted the meaning like that. That was unforgivable.

He listened to the two men talk for a little while longer. Once the critic was gone, he pulled Madarame far away from prying eyes or ears.

“Why did you steal my painting?” he demanded.

Madarame frowned. “I didn’t steal anything Yusuke. You agreed to let me use it for this exhibit.”

“I agreed for let you keep it for a bit. I never agreed to this!”

“Stop being so selfish,” snapped Madarame. “I’ve done everything for you these past years. You owe me. The least you can do is stop being such a brat.”

“But this painting is so personal...” muttered Yusuke, looking anywhere but Madarame’s face. Why did he feel like the bad guy? Madarame was in the wrong. Madarame had stolen from him and lied and hurt him. So why did Yusuke feel so guilty about upsetting him?

“All paintings are personal,” said Madarame. “Yours is nothing special.”

“But I –"

“You’re being ridiculous Yusuke. This conversation is over. You agreed to this and getting upset over nothing isn’t helping anyone. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have an exhibit to attend to.” He whirled around and walked away, leaving Yusuke standing alone, confused and guilty.

Age 15

The feeling of the paintbrush in Yusuke’s hand was familiar and reassuring. The growling feeling in his stomach was familiar as well, though it did nothing to comfort him. He put down his brush and looked up from the painting he was working on.

“I’m hungry,” he said.

Madarame sipped his green tea. “Be patient.”

Yusuke frowned. “But I want to eat now.”

“Don’t be selfish Yusuke.”

“But—”

“Just finish this painting, then you can eat,” Madarame stood up and setting his cup in the sink.

“Promise?”

“I promise.” He patted Yusuke on the shoulder as he left the room. Yusuke listened to him fetch his coat, leave the house and lock the door behind him. It wasn’t unusual for Madarame to go out in the evenings, so Yusuke paid it no mind.

He returned to his painting, the hunger gnawing at him like a wild beast.

Yusuke finished his painting after a few hours and immediately went to start another. It wasn’t that late, not really. It was barely even dark outside. Besides, the more work he did, the happier Sensei was. It was a simple equation really. Hard work went in one end and kindness came out the other.

The next time he checked the clock, it was nearly midnight. His eyes strained when he pulled them away from the canvas. When had it gotten so late?

He really should eat something.

When he checked the fridge, he found it was nearly empty. Yusuke wouldn’t be sent grocery shopping until Sunday and the food would have to last until then. Besides, the gnawing in his stomach had calmed a bit. He could survive another night.

Something deep down told him he doesn’t deserve anything anyway.

Yusuke tidied up after himself and went to his frigid room. It was always cold in there because the radiators didn’t work. They broke down a few weeks after Natsuhiko left and had never been fixed.

He didn’t have much - just his futon, a small table and an easel in the corner - but it was enough. Madarame had always preached that worldly possessions and wealth corrupted an artist. You couldn’t be creative if you were happy and content. You needed to suffer.

Art is borne through suffering. Art requires sacrifice. Pain is temporary but Art is forever.

He lay down on his futon, exhausted and hungry. A tiny shard of anxiety lingered in his mind, keeping him awake. Madarame still wasn’t home. It was unusual for him to stay out this late without warning Yusuke first.

Yusuke was probably just being paranoid. Everything would be fine. His sleep slowly came to him, like snow settling on the ground, only to kicked around by the first person to deem it’s existence inconvenient to them.

He was startled from his brief rest by a sharp banging at the door. Yusuke dragged himself out of bed and went to let him in. Opening the door, he saw something he didn’t expect.

It was Madarame.

He was drunk.

Yusuke knew that Madarame drank – it wasn’t a secret – but he had never actually seen him drunk before. Whenever he stayed out late, he would slink off to bed while Yusuke was asleep, being careful to not wake him up. Yusuke would find him hungover the next morning and connect the dots.

Madarame looked like shit. That was the simplest way to describe it. There was vomit down his shirt, he reeked of whisky and his hair was wild and unkempt, as if he had been caught in a hurricane on his way home. He swayed on his feet, to intoxicated to keep his balance.

“What are you doing awake?” he slurred. “It’s late. You have school tomorrow.”

I was up late worrying about you.

“You’re drunk,” said Yusuke, slightly more accusatory than he intended.

Madarame bristled. “I’m not drunk,” he snapped. “I’m just a little… tipsy.”

Why does he even bother to lie?

“I think I’m going to be sick again,” muttered Madarame, stumbling into the house.

Yusuke grabbed him by the arm and dragged him into the bathroom. Madarame retched and Yusuke went to pull his hair out of his face so he didn’t get sick in it.

As it turns out, helping your drunk father puke at one o’clock in the morning is not fun. Madarame looked rather pathetic, and Yusuke wondered why he kept doing this to himself. It only ever brought him pain.

Helping Madarame into his bedroom, Yusuke handed him a clean set of clothes. He turned around while Madarame got changed and took the soiled clothes from him afterwards.

“You are so much like your mother Yusuke,” croaked Madarame, as he settled down. “Sometimes, when I look at you, I see her eyes staring back at me.”

Yusuke didn’t remember his mother, but from the few blurry pictures that he had found around the shack, left forgotten in notebooks and stashed away in drawers, he knew they looked a lot alike. They shared the same dark hair, cool-grey eyes and lean stature. They could have been twins.

“I loved your mother,” wept Madarame, wiping his tears with the sleeve of his shirt. “I wish I did something differently that day. I could have saved her.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” reassured Yusuke. “You couldn’t have stopped it.”

Madarame rolled over to his side, racked with sobs, and Yusuke comforted him until he fell asleep. He wasn’t slightly surprised when he only got to bed himself at four in the morning.

He was even less surprised when he fell asleep in class the next morning. His teacher hit him over the back of the head with a rolled-up newspaper and Yusuke jumped so hard he almost fell out his chair.

“No sleeping in class,” he snapped. “Why on earth are you sleeping anyway? Did you stay up late watching television or something?”

Yusuke nodded.

He didn’t know what he would say. How would he explain that his father is falling apart at the seams? That he seems to be drunk more often than he is sober? It makes him feel lonely and isolated. There is no way that his teacher could understand.

No one could possibly understand.

Age 16

Yusuke was staying at Ren’s house for the night. It felt strange to sleep in the same room as another person; he hadn’t shared a room with someone since his mother died.

He couldn’t sleep, anxiety swirling in his chest. What if something had happened to Madarame? What if he had a mental shutdown? Even after everything Madarame had done to him, Yusuke didn’t want him to die. He tried to reassure himself that Madarame had been okay when he had made his confession.

Still, they didn’t know much about the mental shutdowns. Could they be delayed? He wanted to poke Morgana awake and ask him, but decided not to. He didn’t want to be a nuisance. Morgana flicked his tail in his sleep and Yusuke hoped he was having a nice dream.

It was too quiet in the attic. The only sound was the rain beating down on the roof and Ren snoring on the couch. Ren had insisted that he take the bed, which only made Yusuke feel more guilty. Ren had done so much for him and Yusuke didn’t want sink further in his debt.

You’re so selfish Yusuke. You always use people.

He wanted to wake Ren up. He wanted to feel less alone. He wanted to let out this worry before it ate him alive. Ren had said that Yusuke could wake him if he needed him.

But you don’t need him, not really. You want him, but you don’t need him.

He decided to let him sleep. Yusuke stared at Ren, pondering. Why had he helped Yusuke in the first place? He had been so rude to him and his friends when they’d first met. Still, he didn’t seem like the kind of guy to hold a grudge. He had probably forgiven Yusuke already.

Hopefully.

Yusuke laid back in bed, trying to force himself to sleep. He jumped a little when his phone vibrated on the windowsill. Someone was calling him. No one ever called him.

He was about to decline the call, when he recognised the number. Trying to keep his voice low so he wouldn’t wake Ren up, he spoke.

“Natsuhiko?”

“Yusuke, there’s something I need to tell you,” said Natsuhiko. He paused, as if trying to figure out what to say next. “There’s no easy way to say this but Madarame is dead.”

“What?” exclaimed Yusuke. Ren stirred on the couch. Yusuke lowered his voice. “How did you—"

“I have a friend who works at the Police Hospital,” explained Natsuhiko. “He told me.”

“That can’t be true…” Madarame couldn’t be dead. Yusuke couldn’t believe it. He wouldn’t believe it.

Natsuhiko sighed, his voice more sympathetic that Yusuke expected. “He was an old man Yusuke. Being arrested put too much stress on his heart and he couldn’t handle it.”

“Sensei always had a weak heart...” mumbled Yusuke as a wave of guilt crashed over him. He had done this. He had killed his father. And for what? A mere slight or two? Was that worth snuffing out a human life?

Natsuhiko sighed and for a split-second Yusuke thought Natsuhiko knew what he had done. His logical side reminded him that was ridiculous.

“Look, I wanted to be the one to tell you this rather than some stranger,” said Natsuhiko. “Madarame wasn’t a good man but he was still your father. It’s okay to mourn him.”

There was a pause. “I have to go,” said Natsuhiko. “Are you going to be okay?” The question was as loaded as Yusuke's silence.

“I’ll be fine,” murmured Yusuke. Natsuhiko hung up, leaving Yusuke with his horrified thoughts.

He faintly realised that he was crying. Why couldn’t he stop? He was such an idiot. He was going to wake Ren up. But Yusuke couldn’t stop the tears from coming. He was a murderer. No one could know about this.

He could leave. The idea hung around his head for a minute. There was nothing trapping him here. He could just pick up his bags and leave. Escape the scorn of the only real friends he ever had.

But where would he go? He couldn’t go back to the dorms. Everyone there knew him about Madarame and he wouldn’t be able to take their pitying stares. He would stay at a motel, but he had no money. How would be pay for it?

He really had nowhere to go. Yusuke had never felt so guilty and lonely and helpless as he did in that moment. Pulling his knees to his chest, he wiped tears from his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt and did his best to quell his weeping.

You’re not seven years old anymore Yusuke. Stop crying.

He was so inside his own head that he didn’t notice that Ren had woken up until he felt a hand on his shoulder. Yusuke looked up at him through bleary eyes, his brain barely recognising his friend.

“Yusuke… Are you—"

Yusuke pushed him away and scrambled to his feet. “Don’t touch me!” he snapped.

“Yusuke, what’s wrong?” said Ren. “I just want to help you.”

“I killed Madarame! Natsuhiko just told me he had a heart attack. He’s dead and it’s all my fault.” He fell to his knees, chest heaving.

“I’m a murderer,” he sobbed. “I never meant for this to happen. I never wanted him to die.”

“You are not a killer,” said Ren, crouching down to Yusuke’s level. “I’ve only known you a week, but I know that much. You didn’t kill him.”

“But I stole his heart, knowing this could happen. He was old and weak. I should have known better.”

Yusuke was startled when Ren wrapped his arms around his shoulders. “You couldn’t possibly have predicted this Yusuke. Besides, stealing a heart doesn’t cause heart attacks. We know that much. You didn’t kill him.”

Suddenly, Yusuke was three years old again, wrapped up in his mother’s arms. He hasn’t felt safe in so long, but in that moment he found comfort again.

Ren didn’t judge him. Ren wasn’t mean or snippy, even when Yusuke got tears and snot all over his t-shirt. Ren hand rested lightly on Yusuke’s shoulder, holding him to reality when Yusuke was sure he might evaporate and float away. He is an anchor. A lighthouse in a stormy ocean. A beacon of comfort in the mess of Yusuke’s life.

Yusuke’s voice was ragged by the time he finally brought himself to speak.

“I hated him,” he muttered. “Despised him even. But there were good days. Days where I loved him. Sometimes we would sit in the den together for hours, just painting. Painting and painting and painting. He used to praise me too. “You’re such a talented painter,” he would say. “You’re such a good kid. I love you so much.”

“You never knew what to expect from him. Sweet words could be replaced with cutting insults in an instant. But I wanted that praise so badly that I would hunt for it. I would do anything he asked, just so I could hear that praise. Turn over all my art, go without food, take his insults and abuse, all for the promise of a little kindness at the end of it all. I only ever wanted to be loved. I only ever wanted him to love me.”

Yusuke buried his face into Ren’s shoulder, not wanting to see Ren’s to see his pathetic expression. “Why do I still love him? Why do I still love the man who ruined my childhood? The man who killed my mother? The man who treated me like dirt? Why can’t I just admit that he hurt me?”

“Will I always be his property?” he asked. “A portrait in his museum of stolen work. His son in name but not in practice. His prodigy. His worker. Will I ever be free from him?”

Ren held Yusuke even tighter. “You are a creator,” he said. “And you are an artist. You are so much more than your past. So much more than what he said you were. And most all, you are my friend. I care about you Yusuke.”

For the first time in his life, Yusuke knew he was hearing the truth.

#persona 5 fanfiction #persona 5 #persona 5 angst #angst #autistic yusuke #akira kusuru #yusuke kitagawa #natsuhiko nakanohara #death tw #child abuse tw #alcohol tw #suicide tw #disordered eating tw #i'm not sorry #inkwell writes

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westerhos · 4 years ago

Text

Our Story: Chapter 4

Woof, it’s been such a hell of a week! Here is a (slightly delayed) fourth chapter. As usual my notes are at the bottom. Take ‘em or leave ‘em.

[December 24, 1992]

The yellow mocks him. Lines of it cross the walls, broad brushstrokes that climb from floor to the ceiling, ceiling to floor. Back again.

FAITH.

Once, Jamie and Claire had laughed at the names underneath, the written ghosts of other possibilities:

“How about Lambert?”

“Nay, Dalhousie is much better.

“Dalhousie?” Claire’s paintbrush strike-through, a definite no. “That sounds like a bloody sneeze.”

He thinks of them now: the would-be Dalhousie, the would-be Lambert, who still exist, half-formed, beneath the layers of paint. Two futures they’d decidedly rejected, covering them with white and then, finally, in the brightest yellow. F-A-I-T-H, they’d declared instead. So bold and sure—what they’d chosen and surrendered, by force, to the grave.

I dinna ken how to say this, man, but the hospital called and…

It was the prison guard who’d told Jamie this, watery eyes peering apologies through the bars. For the first time since Jamie’s arrest, the man’s scowl had lifted, and under the twitching bush of mustache, a grimmer line rose up. Solid as any wall. (That line marks the end of this part of the story. Jamie and Claire’s marigold paradise, gone forever.)

Jamie sees the proof of this all around him: the crib is empty, its sheets unused and its teddy unloved. A bed that will wait and wait, its expectations never met. Right above, the mobile’s flowers droop, dead before tiny fingers could swat them into life. Jamie rips it from the ceiling, and the plaster falls. Little chips of white on his shoulders.

It has been eight months since Claire kneeled alone, veiled in black. It has been eight months since Jamie wept in orange, that very same day, behind a sheet of Plexiglass. He had stared into the other side, willing every visitor’s face into Claire’s. (None of them right; none of them hers.)

And it has been eight days since Claire left and Jamie woke up, drowning in their empty cot. He still smells her, all flowers and wet soil because, even gone, she is there beneath his skin.

Outside, Jamie hears carolers sing, voices carried on the upward swing of the wind. Silent night, holy night. He slides the window open, letting the ice fill his lungs. He holds his breath, welcomes the sting, and listens for the reassuring sounds of her. Claire, a memory under the gust and song:

“You should’ve seen the hernia I treated today!”

“He shushed me, can you believe it? What a wanker.”

“Chinese take-out for dinner, yeah?”

“Jamie, will you come to bed?”

But his wife grows faint beneath the rising bellows, the carolers cheered by the promise of warmth. Silent night, holy night. All is calm, all is bright. And so Jamie exhales—nothing else to do but mouth along, swallow that calm, bright place within the wind; conjure it inside the studio.

In this new place, Jamie does not betray his wife or know the cold, unforgiving grip of handcuffs and the cold, unforgiving grip of grief. In this place, husbands say the right words and wives accept them, do not leave in the dead of night. Here is a place where things make sense, and where babies breathe. Holy infant so tender and mild.

And yet. Jamie and Claire’s home, with its frozen pipes and its skeleton crib, is not that place, does not make sense anymore. The great, illogical impossibility of it all—this:

It was here that Jamie, so desperate for money, siphoned off what little they had. A gamble gone wrong, behind Claire’s back and against his word. And it is here that Jamie wrapped his wrists each morning, bandaging the marks of four weeks in a cell. His skin had bruised, like his heart, which still sits feather-light in his chest. So soft, so quiet. So much of it gone without Claire.

From his window, Jamie watches the carolers advance towards a church, its doors sprung wide. Their footprints sign farewells in the snow, walking away, away, away. The wind howls in their wake, alive with Jamie’s loneliness.

“Come back!” he yells from above, and his own voice is a shock to him. He yells a second time, more frantic now. It comes so easily, these pleas to the retreating strangers. So much easier than calling his wife, begging for her forgiveness, because finally—finally—he has found the words. Come back, come back, come back.

But when it counted, Jamie had turned inward and away; had said nothing. Wasn’t silence better than the wrong words? Smile, rub your hand along her back, take her to bed and fill the void with another, different child? But in that silence, Claire had heard the rip—that swift severance of the bright, red string between them. The two of them, suddenly on their own, waging separate wars against the world. And so she’d left—and he has not called.

“Come back!” he yells again. His desperation echoes between the buildings.

For a second, Jamie thinks they’ve heard him. Their shuffling stops and a woman, fingers clutching her naked neck, turns around. She looks to the ground, all frenzied eyes, before someone grabs her, saying, “It’s cold! Leave it!” She resists at first, peering over her shoulder, but then forges onwards with the crowd. Sleep in heavenly peace. Sleep in heavenly peace…

It is quiet now. Jamie closes the window and leans against it, coming face to face with the empty crib. It is this, this above all else, that does not make sense to him. Hadn’t he seen the pictures—those blurry, vague promises of a little girl? Tacked them to the visor of his car, folded them into his wallet to brandish at the office? And hadn’t he felt the kicks against Claire’s stomach, and assembled this crib, this damn crib?

And yet—there is nothing that makes sense.

And yet—he knows handcuffs and he knows grief.

And yet—she’d had no words to accept, simply left in the dead of night.

And yet. And yet. And yet.

The baby did not breathe.

— - —

(Later, Jamie will rise from his sleep and look out the window. He will follow the path of the sinking sun until it catches a necklace, glaring golden in the snow. Jamie will brace the storm, put the necklace in his pocket. Wait. And when the sidewalk has melted, he will place the necklace there, precisely where it was dropped, for the caroler to find.

Of all the things that do not make sense, he is sure of this: soon, the woman will remember her father clasping it around her neck. Or she will remember when her boyfriend said, “I saw this, and I thought of you.” When she tried it on, just a child, in front of her mother’s mirror. She will remember how much she loves this necklace, this slice of paradise in the dark, cold winter, and she will look for it. This, Jamie knows: she will come back.)

— - —

Before she signs the papers, her lawyer asks, “Are ye sure of this, Claire?”

And when she sees the page, filled with so many endings, she wants to say, “No. No, I’m not sure.”

No, I don’t know if this is the right thing to do.

I don’t know.

But, Claire thinks, what other option is there? How else to forget the butterfly ears, or the way Faith’s skin had caught the dawn? Such a beautiful, translucent thing: strawberry hair, blue lightning across the pales of her lids. How else to forget that Claire had clung to the hospital sheets, so damp and so bloody, after they’d taken Faith away? Just to remember, please, she’d cried. Those dirty sheets, the only sign that the child had ever been there. Please, please. Just to remember.

She’s grown so tired of remembering, now craves the oblivion of forget. She does not want the memory of Jamie’s sleep-smile, lit red and blue (just like their daughter) by the Christmas tree’s glow. She does not want the memory of how she almost didn’t leave, how she’d stood in the gateway to their marigold paradise, paralyzed. A moment in time where she might have gone back, lain down beside her husband and unpacked the suitcase. Never called Ned Gowan.

Standing there that night, Claire had watched Jamie sleep and wondered: Would she have been like you? and Would she have looked like you? And the answers, so immediate and so clear in the rainbow tree light were, Yes. Because how could God resist?

And so what else is there to do but sign the papers? Jamie, day after day, staring back at her with their would-be-child’s face. Claire had closed the door, had not looked back. Because how could she possibly stay?

At her silence, Ned Gowan probes again, “Are ye sure of this, Claire?” and calmly, calmly she takes the pen. She signs along the blank line, and every loop of her name—now: Beauchamp, Beauchamp, Beauchamp—swirls with all her doubts.

No, I’m not sure.

No, I don’t know if this is the right thing to do.

I don’t know.

I don’t—

No.

— - —

(If the heart moves at the speed of light, then it will shatter upon impact. A million broken shards, all strewn across the world. Pieces of Claire will remain in that studio, in that cot, in her husband’s arms. But most will be found buried deep below the ground. Inside the tiny, wooden box that holds their baby girl.)

— - —

And now we get to my least favorite chapter in the entire fic! I still laugh about the fact that I casually gloss over Jamie gambling their life away on the day Faith died—which I think was my nod to Jamie’s duel with BJR? I honestly never quite figured it out, which means it probably shouldn’t be in the story at all. It’s asking you guys to take a massive leap of faith, so thanks for making the jump for me.

Either way, I have seen my parents go through a similar experience. And I think when you’re living on your own for the first time—as I was doing when I first wrote this—you start to reflect on who they are as people, outside of their role as “your parent”. What sort of griefs and hardships have they shielded you from? It was something that was on my mind at the time and it bled into this story.

Despite its flaws, there are some things I still like about this chapter. Claire and Jamie painting Faith’s name on the wall is the image that I started with. The passage about Jamie seeing the caroler is one of my favorites, and I hope it’s a metaphor that works. And I still like the rhythm of Claire’s indecision: I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t—No. It’s nice to write something that makes even you, the writer, feel a lil sad!

#outlander #myfic #jamie fraser #i like how even when i'm just reposting shit i can't stick to a schedule #claire beauchamp

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maraudererasmut · 5 years ago

Text

Black and White (Part XXXVIII)

Sirius

Thanks again for dinner. It was delicious. I had a great evening. Hope you did, too. 😘

Remus kept staring at the text, trying to interpret it for any hidden meaning. This was the first time Sirius had ever used an emoji while texting him. Sirius was thirty. Thirty year old men didn't use emojis, did they?

Remus didn't...

Remus typed out his response and hit send before rolling over and starting his day. He needed to paint, to clear his mind from all the fog that had settled in his brain.

The artist walked up to one of his blank canvases and stared at it, waiting for it to talk to him, to whisper its secrets into his heart. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, inhaling the scents of gesso and acrylic paint, trying to steady his racing mind. When he opened his eyes again, he was ready.

Remus grabbed a brush and a palette and began spreading paint across his canvas, focusing on how his tools felt beneath his hands. There was nothing quite like thick acrylic paint— the bold colours that it could achieve, the texture of paint on the canvas. Smooth brushstrokes layered themselves, one atop another, and Remus let himself cover his canvas, not worrying or thinking, just focusing on the feeling of painting.

Buzz buzz.

The buzzing of Remus' phone pulled him from his work; he grabbed it from his pocket and checked his texts.

Remus

I did, too. Thanks for coming over

Sirius

How about I return the favour? Dinner tomorrow at my place? I have a tv

Remus smiled at Sirius' text. He wrote his response out and debated for a moment whether or not to send it. Did people really use emojis to communicate these days?

Remus

Sounds like a plan ❤️

Once the message was sent, Remus returned his focus to painting, trying not to overthink his word choice.

Buzz buzz.

Remus briefly mused how quickly Sirius had responded, before he actually saw who the text was from.

Lily

Really? A heart emoji? God, you two are smitten.

Remus rolled his eyes. He was about to type out a snarky response when his phone began to ring. He answered it on speakerphone, placing it on a stool next to his canvas so that he could work while talking.

“What’s up?”

“You busy right now?” Lily’s smile could be heard across the phone line.

“I’m painting. Why?”

There was a pause on the other end before Lily responded.

“Wanna grab coffee? We should chat.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Oh yeah, everything’s fine, don’t worry. I just… Wanna hear about last night.”

Remus scowled at his painting as he tried to interpret Lily’s meaning.

“What about it? Sounds like you’re with Sirius right now… Can’t he tell you?”

“Yeah, well… that’s kind of why I want to talk…”

“Fine,” Remus sighed, resigned to his fate. “Meet you at the Daily Grind in half an hour?”

“Sounds good!”

Remus hung up his phone and looked down at the paintbrush in his hand.

“Sorry, my friend. We’re gonna have to do this later,” he grumbled at it, vaguely wondering why he bothered to address inanimate objects and whether or not Sirius would find it weird.

________

“Talk to me, Remus,” Lily announced as she sat down across from her friend with two cups in her hand; a coffee for her and a chai tea for Remus.

Remus raised a brow and tried not to smirk.

“About?”

“Shut up. You know exactly what about!”

Remus couldn’t help himself as he watched Lily’s face twist in frustration.

“Well, do you want me to shut up or to talk?”

“I will hurt you, Remus Lupin. Don’t think I won’t!” Remus knew that Lily was joking, but if she hadn’t been, he would likely have been terrified. As petite as she was, Lily was feisty, and Remus was sure she could beat him in a fight any day of the week.

“Okay, okay! Geez, Lily…” Remus pretended to complain, holding his hands up dismissively. “We had a date last night. Sirius came over. We had dinner, we watched a movie! Why is this so urgent?”

“So… he didn’t stay the night?”

Remus blinked, taken slightly off guard.

“Uh… no? No, he… he left after the movie. Is that… weird?”

Lily shrugged, worrying her coffee cup between her fingers.

“I’m… not sure yet. Something’s up with Sirius, I’m just trying to figure it out…”

Remus felt his stomach lurch and his head immediately began filling with the worst case scenario.

“What’s wrong, Lily? Is he okay? Should we head over?”

“What? No, he’s…” Lily glanced up and noticed the panicked expression on Remus’ face, realizing her mistake. “Shit, I’m sorry. Nothing like that! He’s fine, don’t worry. I just… he seemed a bit out of sorts today…”

A wave of relief washed over Remus as he felt himself relax into his chair.

“Out of sorts? In what way?”

Lily shrugged, chewing her lip in contemplation.

“I just… He thought you were mad at him this morning and he… he wouldn’t tell us why.”

Remus furrowed his brow, taking a sip of his tea.

“I wasn’t mad at him…” He mumbled, a twinge of guilt in his voice.

“I didn’t think you were… I just… when you sent him that stupid heart emoji, I hadn’t seen him that happy in ages… I’m glad you sent it.”

Remus groaned, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hands.

“That stupid emoji… Since when did people our age use emojis?”

“What happened, Remus? If the date went well, why was Sirius so weird this morning?”

Remus stared at the table for a moment, trying to figure out how to talk to Lily about his problems without sounding like an immature teenager. Remus took another sip of tea, letting the warm liquid burn its way down his throat, heating him up from the inside.

“Things were really great at first…” He began, setting his cup down and focusing on it. “We were watching a movie and… and cuddling. And things got… You know…”

Lily made a sound as if she had just seen a puppy snuggling with a kitten, and Remus felt his chest tighten.

“Go on…”

“I just…” Remus sighed, running his fingers through his hair, trying to gather his thoughts. “We were snogging, yeah? And I tried to… you know… make a move… Sirius just… didn’t seem interested.”

“Again?”

Remus nodded. He felt Lily reach out and place her hand atop his, giving it a loving squeeze before pulling away.

“Did he… say why?”

“Nope. Just that… it wasn’t me. Which… Doesn’t feel true.” Remus closed his eyes, rubbing them again, trying to make sense of the thoughts that had been driving him crazy since the night before. “I get that he’s not ready. And consent is so important, I know that. And… And I know that he doesn’t owe me an explanation, I do! I just… It’s so hard to hear that someone doesn’t want to be with you. It’s… It’s such a blow to the ego… To have someone... someone who you’re so attracted to, someone who says they’re attracted to you, too. And they just… don’t want to do things with you and I just…”

Remus exhaled, trying to steady himself and nip his rambling in the bud.

“I get it, Remus… That must be hard…”

“I just… It all sounds so stupid! It’s so… so… childish! I hate that this is getting to me! I know, objectively, that this is a perfectly normal situation with a perfectly reasonable explanation…” Remus ran his fingers through his curls again. "It took me years… years to finally build the confidence to know what I want and to ask for it. Taking the lead in a… a sexual situation… that's new to me. I had to shake all of those ingrained feelings that were drilled into me as a kid. Being gay is bad, sex is bad— wanting sex? That's extra bad! I had to… detach myself from that… internalized homophobia, that embedded hatred of myself and my sexuality. And I just… it… fuck, it feels like I'm right back there right now! I'm… wondering if there's something wrong with me. I went out on a limb and tried to express my desires, and being met with resistance makes me feel… undesirable. Does… does that make any sense?"

Remus looked up into emerald green eyes that shimmered with lingering tears. Lily looked so affected by Remus' words, so taken by what he had to say.

"Oh, Remus… I know exactly what you mean. I get it. I really do… And I am so sorry that you're going through that…”

“And…” Remus continued after a beat. “And if he just… came out and said something? Like, if he said “Hey, Remus, by the way, I’m asexual!” That would be fine. Better than fine! I get that! That’s something I understand. And we could figure things out from there! I just… That’s not what’s happening. Sirius just… doesn’t want to do stuff with me and I just… I don’t know why. And I know that he’s fine hooking up with other people, apparently it’s just me that he has a problem with—“

“Remus…”

Remus looked up. He had gotten so lost in his own head, he hadn’t realized that he was spilling out the thoughts that had been kept inside for so long; unspoken problems that he hadn’t had a chance to decipher, let alone say aloud.

“Sorry…”

“Don’t be sorry. I just… I want you guys to be happy. And I think you can be… I worry when I see you like this, it’s not really like you…”

“Yeah… This is… new to me...” Remus hadn’t been in a real relationship for a while; he forgot how vulnerable he felt whenever he opened himself up to someone, allowing them to see past his carefully constructed barriers. He hated it. “I just… wish I could figure this out…”

“Sirius just needs time, I think. I’m not sure what’s up with him, but whatever it is, I’m sure he’ll open up to you about it. He’s… he’s so taken by you. He adores you, Remus. I can see it in his smile. I can see it every time I mention you. He lights up whenever he talks about you…”

Remus felt himself blush as he took another sip of tea.

“Really?”

“Mmhmm. Really,” Lily said with a nod. “You bring out the best in him. I think what he needs right now is… a bit of patience.”

“I think I can manage that,” Remus said to his cup, smiling lovingly at it. “Patience…”

#Wolfstar #Remus Lupin #Sirius Black #Black and White #Wolfstar Fanficiton #Wolfstar AU #My writing #Black and White Part 38 #Part 38 #Part XXXVIII #I think I’m finally back to posting daily!!#Or at least every other day!#I think I can manage to start posting again more frequently!!#Thank you for your patience everyone!!#I really appreciate it!!#You’re all so amazing!!

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acanvasofabillionsuns · 4 years ago

Text

(i wish we had) one more kiss

happy birthday to the rad, excellent, neat @main-chive!!! and thank you to @ratherstarryeyed for betaing!!

AO3 link!

Summary: Patton and Remus, through the years (or: 5 times Patton kissed Remus, and one time Remus kissed Patton) Warnings: there’s a few instances of non-consensual kissing? (it’s more Patton smooches him without warning than Remus not wanting to be kissed), a couple suggestive lines Wordcount: 2508

“Ow!” Remus cried. Patton skidded to a halt, turning around and running back to his friend.

“What happened?”

“I fell.” Remus pouted. “My knee hurts.” He propped his leg up so that Patton could see the scrapes on his knee.

“Oh no!” Patton tried to think what his mommy had done last time he’d scraped his knee. She’d cleaned it, and then put a bright blue band-aid with Mickey Mouse on it on his knee, and then kissed it to make the hurt stop. Patton could do that! “I can help!”

“You can?” Remus asked.

“Yeah!” Patton grinned. “We clean it off,” he patted Remus’s knee until all the little rocks that had gotten stuck on it fell off, “and then we put a band-aid on it, except since I don’t have any band-aids then we’ll have to skip that part, and then we kiss it so it stops hurting!” He bent down and placed a kiss on Remus’s knee. “There! All better!”

“Thanks, Patty!” Remus grinned.

“You’re welcome!” Patton beamed. He’d helped!

He stood up, then held out his hand to help Remus up too. Remus took it, standing up, then winced and frowned down at his knee.

“It hurts again now that I’m standing,” Remus told him, looking up at Patton with confusion.

“Huh,” Patton said. “Maybe we do need to go get a band-aid since we skipped that part?”

Remus sighed. “I guess. We’ll go back to playing once I get the band-aid, right?”

“Of course!”

“Okay.” Remus still looked a little put out, but he grinned at Patton anyway. “Bet I can beat you back to my house!” He took off running.

“No fair!” Patton cried, racing after him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Remus was being spacey and quiet. Usually, Patton wouldn’t mind too much since the silence meant he could focus on his homework, but Remus had been quiet for long enough that Patton had practically finished it without being interrupted once, and he was bored and needed a break.

He poked Remus’s cheek. “What’s up with you?”

Remus startled and turned to Patton. “Huh?”

“You’re all…” Patton waved his hand in vague circles, “spaced out-y, and I’m not sure you’ve said five sentences since I got here. So what’s wrong?” He poked Remus’s cheek again for emphasis.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Remus said, immediately getting a pillow to the face for his attempt.

“Try again,” Patton told him.

“Roman and Logan started dating.” Remus wrinkled his nose, and Patton mirrored him. Weren’t they too young for dating? They’d just started middle school. “And that got me thinking…”

“Dangerous,” Patton teased, and Remus hit him with the pillow Patton had used to hit him not even a minute before. This was betrayal.

“I was thinking,” Remus began again, sticking his tongue out at Patton, who stuck his out right back. “Dating means kissing—among other things—and I’ve never been kissed before. What if once I start dating then whoever I date breaks up with me because I’ve never kissed anyone else before and I’m bad at it?”

Patton took all that in, thought it over, and then declared, “That’s stupid.”

“Hey!”

Remus scowled at him, and Patton continued, “Kissing’s easy and if someone breaks up with you because they don’t think you’re a good kisser then I’ll punch them.”

“How would you know what kissing’s like?” Remus demanded.

Patton rolled his eyes and kissed Remus. “There. See? Easy.”

“Hey!” Remus said, again, and so naturally Patton had to taunt, “Is that all you can say?” and start a pillow fight.

(And if by the time they were done Remus had forgotten all about kissing, then all the better.)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

III

“Paaaaaaattonnnnn,” Roman called as he burst into the art room, causing Patton to look up from his painting. “I need your help.”

“Yeah?”

“There’s this scene in our play where I just can’t seem to get the feelings in it right, and you’re always great at figuring out how to convey emotion like you want,” Roman pouted.

Patton sighed and set his paintbrush down carefully, brushing his hands on his jeans and standing up. “What do you need?”

Roman brightened. “So the prince is greeting everyone, and a handshake seems too formal but a hug wouldn’t be appropriate and I just don’t know what else could be done. Any ideas?”

Patton hummed thoughtfully. “Remus! Could you come help?”

“Sure,” Remus agreed, setting his brush and paints aside and coming over. “Whatcha need?”

“Roman’s brainstorming greetings from the prince in his play and I said I’d help,” Patton told him. “What about, like, a hand kiss?”

Roman’s eyes lit up. “Genius!”

“Oh, oh!” Patton added excitedly. “The love interest comes in with the rest of the people the prince greets, too, right?”

“Yeah?”

“What if he makes eye contact as he does the kiss, like—Remus, could I see your hand?” Remus gave him his hand obligingly, and Patton moved in front of him to bend at the waist and kiss the back of his palm, looking up and making eye contact with Remus as lips met skin. He ignored the zinging that went through him when that happened, tabling it for later to think over and scream into pillows about.

Patton dropped the hand and straightened, grinning at Roman. “Like that?”

“Oh, that’s perfect, thank you!” Roman said, flashing a grin at the both of them before rushing out of the classroom.

Patton hummed, pleased, and went back to painting.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Patty!” Remus cried, popping into Patton’s vision. “Come play Spin The Bottle with us!”

“Okay,” Patton agreed, letting Remus take his arm and drag him a few rooms over, where Roman, Virgil, Logan, Remy, and Emile were all waiting. Patton plopped into an opening in the circle.

“Who goes first?”

“Nose goes,” Emile announced, and Patton smacked his nose immediately. Around him, everyone but Remy did the same.

“Oh no,” Remy said, grinning. “I’ve got to kiss someone. A tragedy.” Virgil, sitting next to them, shoved them.

“Don’t spin it on me.”

Remy placed a hand on their chest in faux offense. “Are you saying you wouldn’t want to kiss moi?”

“Don’t see how anyone would, honestly,” Virgil teased. Remy gasped loudly.

“Shut up and start the game, loser,” Remus taunted.

Remy rolled their eyes and twisted the bottle. It spun feebly, barely making a full turn before landing on Virgil, who immediately shoved Remy again.

“You did that on purpose,” he accused.

“It was the first turn, I was getting used to how it spins!” Remy protested.

Before they could keep bickering, Patton started chanting, “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” The others took up the chant.

Virgil sighed heavily and turned to Remy.

“Don’t be too enthusiastic, now, or I might think you might like me,” they commented, smirking.

“A tragedy,” Virgil said, barely pecking them before pulling back. “If that’s not good enough for you guys then I’m leaving.”

“Fine,” Remus sighed. “You’re up, Virge!”

Virgil rolled his eyes and spun the bottle. It landed on Roman. Virgil glanced over at Logan.

“You chill with me kissing your boyfriend?”

“In the context of a party game, where the goal is to kiss the other players? No, how dare you,” Logan snarked.

“Just checking! Consent and all that.” Virgil leaned over and gave Roman a chaste kiss. “Your turn, Romano.”

“I’ve told you I hate that nickname,” Roman grumbled, spinning the bottle. It landed on Remus. The twins wrinkled their noses simultaneously and Roman spun again. This time it landed on Patton.

“Oh, my prince!” Patton cried dramatically, falling sideways into his lap. “Ravish me now!” Roman snorted and pecked Patton’s lips lightly.

“Stunning. Best kiss ever,” Patton declared, sitting up as he did so. “Logan, I’m stealing your boyfriend.”

“Good riddance.”

“Hey!” Roman squawked.

Patton giggled and spun the bottle. It landed on Remus.

“The bottle certainly likes you tonight, huh?” He joked, trying to cover up his nerves at the thought of kissing Remus. He’d done it before! And this was just a game, one he’d agreed to join knowing that this was a possibility! (And, maybe, hoped it would happen. But that was a secret and even if that did, hypothetically, happen, then he was reconsidering now that he was about to kiss Remus and his stomach had turned into a swarm of nervous butterflies.)

“Not as much as I like you.” Remus winked and oh, goodness, was he trying to make Patton’s face burst into flame?

“Just kiss,” Remy heckled, and Patton huffed and kissed Remus. It barely lasted longer than the time it took to press their lips against each other, but Patton still felt the butterflies burst into fluttering, and he barely held back a shiver.

He pulled back and wrinkled his nose at Remy, asking, “How’s that?”

They grinned, almost shark-like. “Fantastic.

“The only thing that could be better,” they continued dramatically, “is if someone would come and accompany my lips. They’re very lonely.”

“I just kissed you like two minutes ago,” Virgil pointed out.

“And you were perfectly lackluster, but they’re still quite lonely,” they assured him. He rolled his eyes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Patton was going on a date, with Remus, and he thought he might vibrate out of his skin from excitement. Or maybe nerves.

He’d been wanting this for years! Resigned himself to simply pining quietly for his best friend, like some fanfiction character! But here he was!

They’d gone to Waffle House and now were sitting on swings and talking. It felt like any other time they’d done this, but adding the label of a date sent a thrill through him whenever he thought about it.

“Toilet seat for your thoughts?” Remus offered. Patton giggled, tipping his head back to stare at the sky happily.

“I’m thinking about… how happy I am to be here with you,” Patton said. “I’m really glad you said yes.” He looked over and grinned at Remus. “Is that too sappy?”

“We can be too sappy together,” Remus declared.

“Perfect.”

All too soon Patton was checking his phone and wincing at the time. “We should probably go home.”

“Boooooo.” Remus gave a thumb’s down and stuck his tongue out.

“It’s nearly two am,” Patton pointed out, not any happier about it. “We’ve got school tomorrow.”

“We could skip,” Remus offered. “Spend the day making out and dodging any adults we come across.”

“I don’t...” Patton trailed off, unsure how to phrase it.

“We don’t have to!”

“I wouldn’t mind skipping with you, but... I don’t think? I’d be comfortable? Making out. With you. Or anyone.” Patton twisted his fingers nervously. “It’s just so new, you know?”

“Oh! Okay! That’s fine, Patty, we definitely don’t have to do it tomorrow or ever, if you don’t want to,” Remus assured him.

“I think I would, eventually, but just… give me time?”

“Of course,” Remus told him. “Spend the day vibing with music and cruising around town in my truck?”

“I’d love to.” Patton smiled. “However, if we’re going to do that, then I would like to get some sleep beforehand, so. Walk me home?”

“If you must leave me,” Remus flopped backwards dramatically, raising a hand to his forehead.

“Dork,” Patton snorted, nudging him with his foot. Remus bounced out of the swing, grinning widely.

“I already know,” Patton cut him off, and Remus closed his mouth with a pout. “You’ve already told me a dozen times this month, you can’t pout at me when I know what you’re going to say.”

Remus sighed. “Fair point.”

Patton beamed at him. “That’s what they call my… you know.” He rotated his hips suggestively, then took off running, giggling into his hands at the scandalized “Patty!” from behind him.

“What can I say?” He called back, slowing to a stop as Remus stayed where he was and trying to squash his laughter long enough to talk. “You must be rubbing off on me.” He cackled and took off again as Remus started to chase him.

He almost managed to make it to his house without being caught, Remus scooping his waist and slowing them to a stop at the beginning of their road.

Patton wasn’t able to calm his laughter until Remus was setting him down on his doorstep, having pulled him into a princess carry and walked him home.

“Goof,” Remus teased lightly, booping Patton’s nose.

“Your goof,” Patton countered, still grinning widely, and booped him back.

“Yep,” Remus sighed happily.

Patton beamed up at him for a moment longer, before chirping, “Okay! Goodnight!” then kissing him on the cheek and ducking inside.

(Remus stared at the closed door, fingers grazing the spot where Patton had kissed him, until Patton poked out of his window to tell him to “Go home and get some sleep, dummy!”)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Do I even want to know?” Remus asked.

“Probably not,” Patton said, trying to smile winningly. Remus rolled his eyes and pointed to the counter, digging through the freezer. Patton hopped up obligingly, accepting the ice pack Remus gave him and pressing it against his lip. He’d taken the guy down pretty quickly—probably at least partially the shock factor of the friendliest guy on campus starting a fight—but he’d gotten in a couple good punches.

Remus came back with the medicine box and some vaseline.

“Wiggle your fingers for me?” he asked. Patton did, and Remus nodded. “Probably didn’t break anything, then. Good. Put the ice pack on your knuckles while I treat your lip?”

Patton did so, and Remus wet a paper towel and dabbed at the blood on his face.

“Did you win?”

“Yeah,” Patton grinned, then winced as it pulled on his split lip painfully. Remus winced in sympathy, taking some vaseline and smearing it gently on the injury.

“As much as I love it, you’ll probably want to not smile for the next few days, or at least be careful when you do,” Remus advised. “Also, I know it’s tempting, but don’t lick it, that’ll hurt more than help. If you keep applying vaseline regularly that should help curb the impulse.”

“Okay,” Patton agreed, half-smiling at him to try and avoid the pain of fully smiling. It sort of worked.

Remus smiled back, then asked, “Let me see your hands?”

Patton set the ice pack beside him and presented his hands to Remus, who took them gently in his own and examined them. He hummed consideringly, then told him, “I think these should be fine with just ointment to help with pain.”

“Well, y’know,” Patton raised his eyebrows enticingly. “I’ve heard kisses also help with pain.”

“Is that so?”

“Yep.”

“Well, we’ll just have to try that out, won’t we?” Remus asked, then kissed his knuckles gently, like an absolute tease who knew exactly what he wanted when he asked for kisses. (Not that he didn’t treasure every kiss from Remus, but still.) Patton whined softly, and Remus snickered before lightly kissing him on the lips.

“How’s that?”

Patton hummed. “I think it still hurts a little. We’ll have to try again.”

“Well, we can’t have that.” Remus grinned and kissed him.

#wasn't said explicitly in the fic but patton's demi #title is from lucky by jason mraz #ts patton #ts remus #intruality #ts roman #ts virgil #ts remy #ts logan #ts emile #background logince #nonbinary remy #my fics #my writing #sanders sides #ren #happyyyyyyyy birthdayyyyyyyyyyy #i hope you like this!

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xxtha-blog · 4 years ago

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So apperently I wrote a oneshot fanfic and forgot about it for almost 2 years

And because it's comedy fucking gold, and also some quality post-comic Ace content, I thought I'd share it with you people here.

Without further adieu, may I present to you

A Casual Encounter With Ace

Ink knew very little of Ace. He had met him once, briefly, in the last moments before his AU disappeared into nothingness, Ace sneaking through the portal Dream had created and slipping away from the destruction of his own home like it was nothing more than an average Saturday. Ink barely had the chance to talk to him, didn’t even know his name, he just knew that there was a flamboyant top hat wearing skeleton that enjoyed stealing things and harassing Dream, prancing around the multiverse and causing chaos with no restrictions. Of course, Ink planned to catch him… eventually… if he hadn’t forgotten… multiple times. But it was Ace who seemed to catch him instead.

Ink had been sitting in the snow, crouched behind the trees of Underswap, checking up on the stability of the timeline, when he heard a voice behind him. At first, he thought it was Blue, the only one who would know to look for him there, but the accent threw him off. Ink turned slowly, curious, and saw the black and red skeleton leaning against his staff behind him, smiling modestly as he surveyed the rest of the underground as Ink did.

Ink paused for a second. “Hey– Don’t I know you…?” He tapped a pencil against his chin, working with all his might to remember.

“Perhaps, dear sir, perhaps indeed, for I am quite popular, simply ask my wonderous fans, who may be reading this right now! Which does remind me, do you ever realize that we transcend not only drawings and comic books, but also code, writing, and animations. It’s quite crazy when you think about it, I mean, just look at you. What? One of the most popular characters in the entire fandom created by a mere teenager! Mind boggling and simply astounding, our existence, both of us in fact, relies only on two simple teenagers bringing us to life.” Ace talked mellifluously, his accent smooth and precise, as though someone had mashed together a French and British accent and added a gay flare to it. He talked incredibly fast, as though to confuse everyone with his slur of words, despite them not being slurred in the slightest.

Ink stood up, brushing the snow off his sweater. “Wait a second!” He glanced up again his eyes widening. “Aren’t you that magician guy?!”

Ace tilted his head, intrigued.

“Aha!” Ink declared in triumph. “I finally found you!”

“Magician guy is quite vague. And a guy, no, no, dear sir, not at all, I simply am I, an illusionist, a magician, a slight bit insane, but far saner than you, so I must ask for you to be a tad bit more specific for fear I may misinterpret what you wish to say and be unable to reply!” Ace spun his staff around, giving Ink a slight smirk.

“You’re from that AU- Oh what was it.” Ink spun his hands through the air, churning his memory around. “Magicwhatever, Lucktale, Underchance, Chancyluck, Chance, Chance something, Chancetale-? CHANCETALE!” He put his hands on his hips proudly.

“A dead name, no?” Ace raised his eye sockets into a quizzical expression.

“I mean, yeah, but you’re still here, which means you’re screwing up timelines. Which means I gotta stop ya!” With a quick flip of his arm behind his head, Ink pulled his paintbrush out in front of him and pointed it towards Ace.

“Stop me? Stop me! Oh, how wonderful!” Ace’s eyes lit up as he spun on his heel with glee.

“You’re supposed to be worried,” Ink pointed out. “Like, oh no he’s going to catch me?! Whatever shall I do! And then I go, heck yeah I’m going to catch you! Because I’ve got a super cool paintbrush!”

“I dare say you do not.”

“What do you mean? My paintbrush is awesome, I mean just look at it–" he stopped. "Where’s my paintbrush?” Ink’s hands were empty, his fingers grasping at the cold air around them and nothing more. He wondered if his memory had lapsed again, but he could have sworn he had just been holding it. He reached back only to grasp at the air once more.

Ace casually spun the paintbrush in his hands, still standing stationary a dozen or so feet away, studying the fine patterns on the metal clasps. “Quite a nice paintbrush, indeed, I do not disagree with that, however, you do not have it, therefore your statement was false.” Without another word, the paintbrush disappeared into thin air, and Ace merely tilted his top hat.

Ink started to take things a little more seriously, his smile fading. He straightened. “This’ll be interesting.”

“Oh, tis always interesting when I’m here! Just ask your dear friend Dream!”

�� “We’re not really friends,” Ink said with a shrug. “He just happens to be useful sometimes.”

“Oh my! What wonderful news we have here! I’ll be sure to keep it in mind to use against you so that I can slowly break apart your relationship until you are both mortal enemies in which case I can use your turmoil to my advantage!” He clasped his hands together, smiling softly, before adding, "If need be."

Ink stared for a second. “You know if you really want to be evil, you shouldn’t announce what you’re going to do out loud.”

“Evil? No, I’m not evil. Never in my wildest dreams would I ever consider myself to be evil, for that would mean I am profoundly immoral, and although I am profound, immoral I am not. I know precisely what is right and wrong, and good and bad, and have no trouble discerning between the two. I simply choose to do good and choose to do bad based on the situation and outcome it will provide me, and dear sir, it is quite a bore to be simply one or the other, is it not? I mean, you’re one to speak, think of the things you have done and the people you have hurt for your own benefit, quite chaotic indeed, but not evil. Few would call the fabulous Ink evil. Therefore I am not evil. I am just spontaneous, whether that be something pleasant or something disagreeable.”

“You really do talk a lot,” Ink said, crossing his arms.

“Tis a showman thing.”

“Showman?”

“Oh! Would you like to see a show?!”

“Not really. I was in the middle of–”

Ace clapped his hands together cutting Ink off, his staff forming between his palms as he pulled them apart. He twirled his staff like a baton before stamping it down into the snow and pulling his top hat off his head, taking a slight bow before beginning, “A magic show! For the fabulous Encre!”

Ace began to perform his dazzling illusions. As real as reality, yet as mad as a dream. He swept up beside Ink and before Ink could say a word, slipped his scarf right over his head and turned it a kaleidoscope of brown butterflies. Ink went to protest, but a butterfly zipped over top of his mouth and turned into a brown piece of duct tape. The rest of the butterflies froze, falling to ice cubes on the ground before bursting into tiny glass shards that glimmered with little lights.

“Butterflies were not meant for the underground! How unfortunate. The terms and conditions said nothing about turning to glass, however! Then again, I did not read them. Alas, now I must clean this all up.” Ace spun back around Ink, standing over top of the pile of glass shards.

Ink shouted, but his words came out as muffled gibberish. He tried to pull the duct tape off, but it refused to budge. He waved his arms around, exasperated.

“What’s that dear sir? You wish to see more magic tricks? Well, I wish to perform more as well!” Ace spread his arms out, the glass shards levitating off the ground around him before spinning into a small ball and transforming into a lightbulb above Ace's fingertips. He caught it out of the air, studying it closely, before looking back up at Ink.

“I would put this above my head and say I do so happen to have an idea, but that would be terribly cliché, would it not?”

“Mphfffff!”

“I wholeheartedly agree! I’ll put it inside my mouth instead!”

Ace slipped the lightbulb between his teeth, smiling deviously.

“Now dear sir,” he said with zero hindrance, despite the lightbulb clamped between his teeth. “It is a well-known fact that when one puts a lightbulb inside their mouth, it shall go in quite fine and then never ever come out again in one piece! Today I am here to prove that theory wrong and promote the putting of light bulbs in your mouth everywhere!” Ace let out a small laugh before quickly inhaling the lightbulb.

Ink’s eyes narrowed, giving up his attempts to talk through the duct tape.

“Where ever has it gone? Ah! I know!” Ace reaches a hand inside his left eye socket and pulls the lightbulb into the place his heart-shaped pupil should have been.

“And now to turn it on!”

With a slight flick of his wrist, Ace summoned an egg out of midair, then cracked it against the nearest tree. From the cracked shell sprang a toaster, which Ace caught in his hands as though he had done this many a time. He quickly plugged the toaster into the tree and waited a few seconds, but nothing seemed to happen.

Ink watched, both baffled and annoyed, only able to express his feelings through a few grunts and shakes of his head. Ink had seen many things over his life, AUs full of nothing but Sanses, characters made of watermelons, atrocious crossovers, but nothing quite as strange as this.

“Oh, I see what I’m doing wrong! Forgive me, dear sir, I have never used a toaster in my life! I run solely off of white chocolate!” Ace unplugged the toaster from the tree and threw it as far as he could muster. “Farewell, dear toast maker. I shall miss thee.”

He reached inside the small red pouch on his shirt, barely bigger than a golf ball, and pulled a full sized hair dryer.

Why do you have a hairdryer?! Ink shouted, his eyes wide, but it simply came out as “Wff duh vu hvv a her dyr?!”

“For this, dear sir, why else.” Ace put the end of the hairdryer up to his eye and turned it on. It wasn’t plugged into anything, the cord dangling around Ace's ankles. As the hairdryer whirred to life, the light bulb flickered on.

Ace pulled the hair dryer away, making it disappear into a flurry of little pink sparkles before taking a long bow, one of his eyes now made of a little yellow glowing light bulb.

Ink clapped sarcastically.

“Why thank you! Thank you! Truly an amusing time we've had here today!” He pranced over to Ink, patting him on the head twice. When Ink tried to grab him, his entire vision spun around and he was suddenly facing the complete opposite direction.

“Now, now, that’s no way to treat someone who just performed for you.”

Ink turned on his heels, looking around for Ace, but he was nowhere to be seen. The piece of duct tape had vanished.

“Farewell, dear Ink, until you wish for another magic show!”

The voice came from nowhere and echoed throughout the trees before fading into nothingness. On the ground, there was a small paper card. Ink bent over and picked it up, flipping it open. Inside was a tiny brush, smaller than a thumbtack, taped to the inside of the card with a small heart and delicate cursive handwriting: I believe this belonged to you?

#undertale #chancetale fanfic #chancetale writing #Ace and Ink #Chancetale fic #Fanfic #undertale au #Please dont eat lightbulbs

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dammitadolfnomorecake · 4 years ago

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Once Bitten, Twice Stupid prt 166

166

Waking up in the stupidly early hours of the morning, Lance crept around his house as secretly as he could. The shock of not waking up to Keith was shoved aside by the dire need to pee, then throw up. Hearing far too much, when he was far too sleepy, Lance knew he should have tried not to listen to Shiro and Keith as they bickered while painting the nursery. He couldn’t deny part of it was to distract himself from how much he hated throwing up and wanted to concentrate on something much more happier than the wet hacking noises he was making. Painting the nursery was supposed to be his and Keith’s job, yet Shiro sorely needed Keith time and Keith most definitely needed time with his brother, so he could forgive the pair of idiots for painting in the middle of the night.

Creeping along the hallway, he muffled a curse as he tripped on one of the boxes from the nursery, still his movements until he was sure neither brother had noticed. For someone who knew he really should leave the pair alone, he also totally wanted to spy on them and make sure they were doing a good job... Inch by inch the vampire made his way to the open door. Judging by the music playing, Shiro had gotten his way as the songs were all from his youth, not Keith’s.

Peaking around the corner, Lance smiled at the sight of the pair of idiots. Keith was up on Shiro’s shoulders, trying to cover up the mess they’d made of the top moulding. Shiro directed by Keith as he painted. Lance half wished they had surveillance in the nursery because the pair of them were being too damn cute. They’d painted the three walls, leaving the space Lance would have to cut out free enough that it wouldn’t look awkward when the spot was painted to hide the repair. They made such a good team. Shiro had painted down his face again, but he was smiling happily as he teased Keith over dribbling, asking if he needed a bib.

Laughing hard at his brother, Keith nearly fell off Shiro’s shoulders, Lance moving instinctively to catch him, stopping himself a couple of steps into the nursery. Fuck. He’d messed up. He was supposed to be spying, not interrupting

“Lance?”

Preoccupied with not sticking the paintbrush in Shiro’s hair, Keith dropped it as his head snapped up. His boyfriend looked very much like a deer in the headlights as he swallowed hard, before almost nervously starting

“I can explain...”

Lance held his hands up. He wasn’t trying to ruin the moment, not anymore than he had done

“Sorry, I heard the music and saw the light on”

“Oh... Me and Shiro were...”

“Painting the nursery. I noticed. Don’t stop on my account”

Keith slid himself down Shiro’s back, Lance kicking himself for acting without thinking

“I’m not... I mean...”

His boyfriend was attempting to apologise. Lance wasn’t having it

“Babe, seriously, it’s fine. I’m going to head back to bed, you two don’t let me stop you”

“I mean... are you sure?”

“You’re the one who said I was in charge of the back wall, I totally trust you guys. Plus, you haven’t done a bad job”

Shiro cleared his throat

“I didn’t mean to upset you. If you’d really rather...”

Oh Lordy, not Shiro too

“Guys, not mad at all. I was up anyway, and now I’m going to be down again. Gotta try fit in some sleep before I have to pee again. Take your time, just don’t go falling off Shiro’s shoulders. I don’t have workers comp for improvised ladders made from older brothers. Hell, I don’t have workers comp at all”

Both brothers relaxed, Lance waving them goodbye as he headed back to his room. He could hear them discussing whether to continue or not, hoping they would and that Keith would drag him off to see the job they’d done in the morning. When he’d lived alone it wasn’t unusual for him to paint or remodel in the middle of the night when the whim took him. Keith was working hard to be a good dad, but to Lance, his boyfriend already was. The vampire hoped that his boyfriend knew he appreciated everything he did for the three of them, though maybe he’d make extra sure between the sheets come morning.

Keith and Shiro didn’t sleep. Lance woke to find Keith’s side of their bed empty, more than once as he got up to pee then go back to bed. When it rolled around to being a semi decent time to climb up, he’d found both brothers conked out in the nursery. Keith asleep with his head on Shiro’s shoulder, paint rollers laying next to them. Carefully he lifted Shiro first, finding him much heavier than he thought he be as he carried him to his and Keith’s bed, because he knew his boyfriend would freak about him trying to carry Shiro downstairs. Coming back for Keith, he tucked both brothers in next to each other, then set the alarm on his phone for lunch time. Keith had roused a little in his arms, Lance stealing a kiss before assuring him he loved him and he needed a few hours of proper sleep.

Being the earliest riser came with one severe disadvantage. No body was awake to tell him not to go where he’d find something he really didn’t want to see. His kitchen looked as if a bomb had gone off. Blood smeared across the table and counters, his medication bottles smashed in the sink. Glasses randomly placed around the space, the window open, plates broke on the counter. The smell of so much blood sent his ego into overdrive as Lance held his stomach, gutted at the sight before him. Blue was shut in a cupboard, meowing mournfully until Lance gathered her out and into his arms. He’d checked on his way past the living room. Curtis seemed asleep, totally dead to the world and like there was no way he could have possibly been responsible for the mess. Lance couldn’t even try to blame it on raccoons, there weren’t any in the area, and Curtis’s scent hung so strongly in the air.

How was he supposed to tell Curtis? Curtis was one of his best friends. He wanted everything to appear as normal as possibly, but what he’d woken up to left him crying as Blue to tried to escape his tears. He couldn’t deal with everything and have everything appearing normal by the time the others woke. Rieva and Matt would both be mad. Rieva probably madder than he’d ever seen her before. She’d taken on her own role as his protector. Her seeing the destruction caused would send her ego into a fit of rage he honestly feared. His best boy Kosmo hadn’t come to greet him, leaving him with a terrible fear something had been done to him.

Creeping into Matt and Rieva’s room, relief flooded him when he found Kosmo sleeping on the end of the bed. His fur son thudding his tail as he whined at him. Yeah. He got it. Curtis had accidentally scared their fur babies. For now it was safer to leave Kosmo there and Blue with him, despite not wanting to let his precious princess go. Placing Blue down, she let out a “rowr” as she raced across the floor then leapt light on the bed, immediately bunting into Kosmo’s boof head, happy to be reunited with her doggo. Closing the door almost silently, Lance kept his steps light, feeling like an intruder in his own home as he headed to his office.

Krolia had left the door unlocked, making access easy. Slipping into the room, Lance didn’t want to disturb her, but right now he needed someone vaguely more adult than him. His Mami had covered up plenty of times he’d lost his temper thanks to his ego, or thrown up in fear, or had torn through his room to make sure nothing bad was hiding in the shadows. Curtis wasn’t his child, yet he knew how broken hearted he’d be. Maybe acting like nothing was wrong was the wrong move? All he wanted to do was be a good friend.

Shaking Krolia’s shoulder, Krolia roused easily. Lance jumping back as the woman clutched at her chest

“Holy fuck! Jesus, Lance... you scared the shit out of me”

“I’m sorry... Krolia, I need your help... I think I fucked up”

For a woman who’d just been shaken away and given a miniature heart attack as she was, Krolia was a zillion times better at waking up than Keith was. Instantly alert, she pushed back the blankets

“Lance, are you okay?”

There didn’t seem to be the right word to describe how unokay he felt. Her asking served to make him cry harder. The majority of his medication was ruined. He only had what was upstairs now, or what he’d left in his office.

Moving from the single bed, Krolia wrapped her arm around him

“Whoa. You need to calm down... Whatever happened to make you so upset? Here, sit down and tell me”

Lance shook his head. If he sat he’d only risk the chance of Curtis getting up for a glass of water and seeing the carnage

“Can you come with me?”

“Ive got to be honest, I’d rather you sit. You’re kind of scaring me”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know who to ask and I need help right now”

“Is it the twins? Are you in pain?”

“It’s not... it’s easier to show you”

“Okay, lead the way”

Returning to the kitchen, Krolia stalled in the doorway as Lance walked back into his messed up kitchen. Having been in there before, he didn’t think to check the floor, discovering the hard way that there were shattered bottles on the floor too. Whimpering at the unexpected pain, Krolia was by his side in a moment, pulling out the closest chair to force him to sit. Dropping a kiss on the top of his head, for a moment it felt like his Mami was the one there coming to his rescue

“Stay here and don’t move. I’ll get my boots. Here, put this against your foot to stem the bleeding. Can you feel if there’s any glass still in there?”

“I think it is”

Taking the tea towel from Krolia, Lance was thankful that he remained pretty flexible despite the lack of yoga he’d done of late. Pulling out the base of a broken vial from his foot, he threw it into the sink to join the rest before holding the tea towel over the wound. He’d have to tell Shiro about this. Shiro would be devastated too. Matt and Rieva must have had their noise cancelling headphones on and missed the sounds. He had no excuse. There’d been a time when the smallest sound would have woken him. Sleeping in a bed filled with Keith’s scent calmed his ego too much, now this was the price of it. To tell Shiro felt likes betrayal. He felt like that kid running to a teacher to dob in another kid over something that had happened some time ago.

When Krolia came back, she draped one of the blankets from his bed over his shaking shoulders. The tears wouldn’t stop. His foot seemed a far cry pain wise when it came to the emotional pain he felt. His house was his haven. His safe place. A place he filled with love. Three times in the last 24 hours had that been disturbed, all by Curtis who couldn’t even help it. Things well and truly sucked. He needed to get up and help Krolia, but all he wanted to do was cry over the unfairness of the situation

“I’ll start by sweeping the floor. Can I get you anything?”

“I should help”

“I’m not letting you help when you’re in no condition. I know you’ve had complications. For now you should work on settling your emotions”

Krolia was right. He knew his fangs were poking out and his nails clawed. She was right in all the ways he needed right now

“Can... would you maybe please make me a cup of tea?”

Krolia’s skills in the kitchen didn’t exist. He knew that, yet it wasn’t like she could go wrong. Mami always settled him down with a cup of tea. The liquid itself coming second to its scent, a scent he’d always associate with Coran and his mother

“I can do that. You’ll have to tell me how you like it”

“White, one sugar, please”

“Okay”

There was more to that reply that went unsaid. Krolia would call Coran once the evidence was dealt with. He’d need to ask for more medication. Lance knew he was leaking pheromones all over the place, that the stress was bad for the pregnancy, yet Krolia didn’t seem to scent him. Keith would have been able to tell in an instant something was wrong from his scent alone. His body felt slightly flushed, but the deep heavy depressed feeling of the situation seemed the be currently squashing down those particular needs for now. Maybe he should be the one to call Coran? To explain things from his point of view so Coran wouldn’t be too harsh on Curtis. No. Coran wouldn’t be too hard on Curtis. Coran had probably seen so much worse in his long, long, life. His life and the life’s of their friends was probably just a drop in the ocean compared to everything Coran had done in his time.

“Here’s your tea. I’m starting to feel like a real mum. First Keith, and now you”

Krolia seemed pleased as she passed Lance his tea, he’d been so in his head he’d barely noticed her make it

“You talked to Keith?”

“A bit. He was angsting over how to wake Shiro to talk to him”

Lance stared down at his tea. Krolia had put the milk straight in so the colour was a sad off white. Still, he appreciated it as he breathed in deeply trying to focus on the scent of the tea instead of the blood

“Oh. Yeah. He does that. He still says he’s bad with words... he’s really not. He’s just carrying the trauma still of when people dismissed him without listening. Sometimes he doesn’t know just how much he says with the things he doesn’t say”

“He told me I wasn’t making sense”

Lance could imagine. By default Krolia was quite brash, though she did have her secretive ways about her

“I’m sorry for waking you up. I didn’t... I mean, I could have cleaned this place up, but... Did I do the right thing? Not making a fuss? Or did I hurt Curtis more by downplaying it”

Krolia hummed as she looked around at the mess

“You were trying to help a friend”

“I know. He did so much for me. He’s done so much for me. He tried to stand up protect me... I hate that he... that he probably hates himself so much right now. I know what it’s like to lose control of your body, but my pain isn’t his and I can’t understand his pain. It’s funny. I spent years alone. In the past this wouldn’t have bothered me. I would have cleaned it up and not said anything to anyone. I don’t know how to explain to Keith that I’m nearly out of medication again”

“He’ll understand. He’s very understanding when it comes to you”

“I know. I know I burden him by being like this”

“Keith would be sad to hear that”

“I know that too. I mean, I know being a carer is hard. Watching the person you care for change more and more each day”

“Things well get better. I remember how hormonal I felt when pregnant with Keith. The worries of bring him into this world. The worries over my limitation of what I could do to protect him. His father was a mess. The slightest pain or discomfort and he panicked”

Lance snorted with a shake of his head. Like father like son. He loved Keith beyond measurable amounts and words. A single touch could settle his thoughts. A single smile left him all goopy inside. Absolutely anything Keith wanted, Lance wanted to be the one to give it to him. He wanted to continue to grow beside Keith. To nurture their relationship and grow with him. To face all the good and bad times together. He was now hiding one of those bad times from him. Keith needed rest, obviously. Falling asleep with Shiro beside him, the two must have had a good talk. If he told Keith later, he’d be upset he didn’t come to him right away, like how he hadn’t called when his sisters came to see him. The movies never showed how hard being with someone and planning to be with them forever was. Keith would get all moody when Lance pointed out that he needed the rest.

“Krolia, I’ll be back in a minute”

He couldn’t hide this from Keith. Keith needed to know that Lance knew he could turn to him, no matter the situation. Shiro really needed Keith’s support right now, and it’d be better for Keith to know the truth before they told Shiro

“Okay, but before you go, where’s the broom?”

“In the laundry. The dust pan is there too”

“Alrighty. You leave this to me. Wow, I even sound like a proper mother”

Krolia was a proper mother in her own way. She was certainly filling in the gaps of longing for maternal comfort after Mami passed in her own special Krolia way

“You are a proper mother. I won’t be too long”

Trudging up the stairs, Lance cursed them mentally. Today there seemed to be twice as many as there actually were, his back complaining as he straightened up, before promptly half slouching, trying to find that sweet spot where his muscles didn’t want to spasm. Yeah, he was round for his weekage. He felt he seemed rounder than Google showed he should be, but as long as that wasn’t hurting the twins he’d have to bare with it. Shuffling to his room, he found Keith and Shiro where he’d left them. Anxiety over what to say bubbled up, but now he’d made his mind up to tell Keith, he couldn’t turn and head back down those damn stairs empty handed.

Opting to sit on the bed next to his boyfriend, Lance stole a kiss. Keith looked so peaceful, adding to the guilt he already felt about waking him. Opting against shaking him awake and making him panic, Lance nuzzled into Keith’s cheek, pressing kisses to the soft skin brushing against his lips

“Babe, babe, I need you to wake up for me”

Keith was horrible at waking up, unless he either woke up naturally or he woke up with Lance straddling his lap for morning kisses and something more if they were in the mood

“Babe, please. I need you to wake up now”

Nosing a little harder, his boyfriend groaned at him sleepily

“Keith, I need you to wake up for me”

“Sleeeping”

“I know. I know but I need you to get up like right now”

The next groan Keith gave had no English translation

“I know. I need your help”

That seemed to work. Confused purple eyes squinting at him as Lance pulled back enough that Keith could see his face

“Babe?”

“Something happened. I need you to come with me”

“Wha... babies?”

Right. Keith had no clue why his precious sleep was being disturbed

“No. No, I’m okay. I just... I really need you to come with me right now”

“Whaaa... Shiro?”

Lance had the unfair advantage of knowing about the shit storm in his kitchen, that and being more awake than asleep

“He’s right here in bed, but... he can’t see this”

“Your scent... somethings...”

Yeah. His scent was doing its own thing, his eyes were filled with tears and the position hurt his back. Lance already knew he was far from fighting form

“I’ll explain, but... it’s easier to show you... I... I need you to come with me”

Getting Keith moving, his boyfriend was more of a hazard than the damn stairs. His boyfriend tripping on his own feet, leading Lance to catch him as he half leapt down, whimpering as his feet his the floor. With the shock shooting straight up his back, and his healing foot that he’d kind of half forgotten from his back pain, the landing was about as rad as the mess waiting. Yeah. Have a baby they said. It’ll all work out, they said. They didn’t warn him about all the hard work in the middle of it all

“Babe?”

Lance was holding Keith to hold himself up far more than Keith was holding him for the same reason

“I’m okay... my back’s sore, but I need to show you”

“You’re making me worried”

For Keith to have such a grasp on the English language his boyfriend must be internally freaking. Lance hadn’t exactly eased any of his worries

“I’m okay... physically, I’m okay. It’s Krolia... something happened. Not to her, but she’s helping and I... I need you right now”

Straightening himself, Keith moved from his side to standing in front of him. Moving to cup Lance’s cheek, it was more like a light slap as Keith sleepily tried to coordinate himself

“Babe, you’re worrying me. Just... tell me what happened”

“Curtis... he... well, it’s easier if I show you. It’s in the kitchen. Everyone’s alright, but... I’m... kind of... right now I need you to help me out because I’m out of my depth”

Keith’s “galaxy eyes” softened, nodding immediately

“Okay. Whatever it is, it’ll be okay”

“I really hope so... try not to freak out too much. The others are sleeping”

Keith went in front of him, Lance bumping into him when his boyfriend suddenly stopped

“What the fuck?!”

Lance flinched. Yeah. This wasn’t good. Not only was Keith blinded by the kitchen lights, he was forced to see pretty much the same things Lance had... other than the floor. Krolia hadn’t done a bad job of sweeping up the worst of it. Taking a deep breath, all his words came out like word vomit, seeking reassurance that he’d done the right thing by waking Keith and Krolia for help

“I woke up and the kitchen was like this. I didn’t want to wake you up but I didn’t want to hide this from you and I didn’t want you to feel like I was hiding things. I know you barely slept, and I know I woke mum up first, but I... This is my fault and I... I kind of really need you to help because I’m too freaked to adult right now”

“Keith! We meet again. Make yourself useful and get Lance sitting down again. Then you can start on the table while I start on sink”

Right. Blood on his table... Krolia seemed happy to have a helper that wasn’t him. It seemed his boyfriend had bonded more with Krolia during whatever talk they’d had. Lance had his own questions for Krolia, namely did she know about the ring box Keith kept in his drawer and what the fuck it meant for their relationship. Lance thought they’d agreed to wait, now had this additional little voice in his head telling him he should snoop and find out more. Having his boyfriend in the same space calmed his ego, letting him refocus on what needed to happen next

“You need to be careful getting blood out of wood. It would have already stained. Grab some paper towels to mop it up, then we’ll need to clean up what’s left as carefully as possible. We can cover the stain with a table cloth”

“Oh, great thinking! You really did snag a great man. Lance, I want you to sit back down again and finish that cup of tea. You’re still in shock”

He had to admit that he most certainly was still in shock. Keith sighing heavily as he looked to the floor

“Am I going to get glass in my feet?”

“Like Lance did? He really should be off his feet right now”

As Keith turned to him, Lance raised his hands in surrender

“I know. I’ll sit. I got the glass out and tossed it in the sink...”

“Why was there glass on the floor to begin with?”

Moving his left hand to the back of his head, he scratched his hair nervously

“Uh, well, you know...”

“Curtis smashed his medication”

“He did what?!”

Dobbed in by Krolia, Keith was instantly furious at the news. Lance had been trying to figure the right way to ease into the conversation, this was not it

“I have a few vials... you should probably leave the ones in the sink. My blood’s in there and we can’t risk infection”

“Right now I don’t give a fuck. Go back to bed, babe. We’ll fucking deal with this”

“But you’ve been up all night painting”

“And we’ll deal with this right now. Go lay down”

Lance was kind of unimpressed

“I can help”

“Babe, seriously, I’m about to lose my temper. You need that medication and he fucking knows if”

Bursting into tears again, Lance wept for his friend

“He can’t help it. You’ve seen what happens when I act out of ego. Hating him for this is as good as hating me”

Keith sighed, Lance drawn against him as his boyfriend kissed his hair, before relying

“I don’t hate him. I’m mad at the situation. This isn’t what I wanted to wake up to, but I’m glad you came and got me”

“I wanted you to know I rely on you. That I know I can rely on you”

“I know, babe. Can you please let me and mum handle this?”

“I can help. This is my house”

“I know it is, but this isn’t our first time cleaning up blood. You resting right now, is going to help me concentrate on getting this cleaned up”

“I don’t want to be a burden”

“Babe, you’re not a burden. I don’t want to lash out and I don’t want to say something to hurt you. Why don’t you wait in the office until we’re done? I promise I’ll come get you when this is cleaned up”

“But...”

“Babe, please?”

Lance couldn’t say no to Keith asking. He felt completely useless. He wanted Curtis to be happy. He wanted Keith to understand. He knew how Keith got when he was cranky, that meant he wanted to be there for him to help him through those feelings. But, if he was in the way...

“Okay. I trust you”

“And I love you”

“I love you, too. I’ll be in the office. I’m not up for the stairs right now”

In the office he could listen to what was happening. He’d have to content himself with that

“Okay. This shouldn’t take long. Then I’ll come cuddle the fuck out of you”

“You do give the best cuddles”

“I thought Hunk did?”

“Mmm... but you’re cuddles are different. I feel bad I woke you”

“You did the right thing. Now go rest, and don’t think I haven’t forgotten about your foot. I want to take a look at that too”

“Okay... Thank you”

“You’re welcome”

Closing the door to the office, Lance locked it behind him. Should Curtis wake up and attempt something, he didn’t know how he’d handle the idea of having to fight his friend. His instincts were such a mess that instead of standing up for himself, his body was telling him to put as much space between him and his friend as he could do nothing could happen to the twins. Sitting on the bed seemed to have an immediate effect. Lance moving to curl up under the covers. He missed his bed with all the blankets and the sense of security they brought, for now though, this was all he could do to feel safe.

#once bitten twice stupid #oncebittentwicestupid #I’m sorry Curtis #I just need more Krolia with our boys #and a reason to have that demon out faster

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nerevarswritingstuff · 5 years ago

Text

Alla Prima Pt. 1 - Lucifer/Reader

If you like my work, consider buying me a coffee!

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t honored to be gifted with the opportunity to paint a mural for the King of Hell himself. You were honored, beyond words in fact. You never expected him nor his family to have noticed you or your paintings. You knew there were plenty more out there that far surpassed your skills, but hey the pay is… well, “nice” would be understating it too much.

The pay was great. It’d let you buy a new studio, new supplies, new everything. You were allowed to stay within the mansion (which was also another understatement, this place was huge) in one of the guest wings, and given all the privacy and time required to finish. It was practically a dream come true, considering how previous clients would give you unrealistic deadlines for big pieces.

However, there was one problem. You wished it was just not having the right amount of paint for it or not enough time, but no. It was the worst possible scenario any painter or artist could ever have happen to them.

Lucifer gave you fuck all to go off of for what he wanted.

In your less than five minute conversation of him greeting you in the antechamber, all he said that he wanted was a mural of an apple tree in the ballroom. Then he had his servants show you where you were to paint it and where your guest room would be.

The vagueness of what he wanted for this commission made you want to break your brushes over your knee and give him a piece of your mind. “An apple tree mural” could be so many things! Did he want a landscape? In a specific style? Is it just one tree or an orchard? Is it in Hell or the living world? Night? Day? The list is endless. There was so little to go off of you had no idea where to fucking start.

Sure, you like a bit of artistic freedom, but not this much freedom. What if your client hated it and demanded a refund? Too many variables can lead to complications and you hate complications. Of course, you’ve always handled these types of clients easily enough, as some of their blood makes a wonderful mixture for paints.

But you couldn’t exactly deal with Lucifer the same way if he hated your painting. If anything he might just kill you. He could probably just kill you with his thumb. He most likely did do just that to some poor idiot once before. All you could do was bite your tongue and deal with it.

Oh, and that ballroom he wanted you to paint in? Huge. The wall itself was about sixty feet wide and thirty feet up before reaching the ceiling. This was probably the biggest ballroom he had, which only adds more sourness to your mood. The only extra thing Lucifer said he wanted was for the mural to be on the wall opposite of the entrance so guests would see it the minute they’d walk in.

You feel like you could choke someone right now. You’d love to choke Lucifer for being so unhelpful with what he wanted. Why are the demons who ask you to paint something big always so vague? But you knew better than to backsass Lucifer of all people. Again, he could most likely sneeze and you’d become nothing more than a smear on the wall.

You just had to think on the more positive side. You weren’t given a time limit and most importantly you’d have all the privacy needed. You hated people watching you paint. You hated people interrupting you while you paint. People who do usually get a paintbrush jammed into their eye. You’re glad you kept your composure when Lucifer told you you’d have any and all privacy needed for this painting, because you know otherwise you would’ve screamed with joy and relief.

So now here you were, everything set up for you to get ready for painting, sitting back in a chair, staring at this huge ass wall and rapidly tapping your pencil against your sketchbook.

You’ve tried several various sketches, exploring what you could do for a possible mural, only to growl in frustration and try again. And again. And a-fucking-gain. The cycle went for several hours. The entire time no one bothered you. No servants knocked on the door, no other guests or even the royal family. You kind of wish someone did interrupt you so you had someone to take your frustrations out on, but no one came.

Dropping your sketchbook and rubbing at your face, you lean back and groan. Unbeknownst to you, while you sat there, seething, thinking, staring at the wall and wondering just what the fuck you should paint, the door to the ballroom opened. The heels clicking behind you did make you whirl around, lips pulled back into a snarl.

“I thought it was made clear I wasn’t to be—” You choke on your own words, your threat dying in your throat as you stare at your client.

He wasn’t even looking at you, instead glancing down at the floor where you dropped your sketchbook, then looking up at the wall. Then his eyes dart to you, a single, dark brow raised. His lips curled up into a mischievous smile, asking, “Wasn’t to be what, hmm?” He twirls his cane in one hand, the other neatly folded behind his back. When you don’t say anything, he taps the end of his cane under your chin to close your mouth. “I’m waiting.”

You hesitantly say, “Disturbed…” It definitely didn’t sound as threatening as you wanted it to be.

Either way, Lucifer seemed to have found it absolutely hilarious, as he throws his head back and laughs. “Oh, my darling little fool!” He pats you on the head with the end of his cane. “You really think I’d leave you alone for the whole, oh—” he idly waves his free hand as he speaks, still tapping his fucking cane against your head “—however long it’s going to take you to finish this mural? Little Cripps, I know better than to allow a stranger to be all alone and unsupervised in this manor.” Another twirl of his cane and he’s walking past you, looking at the array of paints you’ve organized, then at the blank wall.

“I came here to see how things were going with the mural, but seeing as you haven’t even started…” He turns to you, raising a brow once more.

You rubbed your head, watching him all the while and frowning. You wanted to tell him that it wasn’t your fault you had so little to go off of and didn’t know where to start. He should’ve specified exactly what he wanted. But instead you say through gritted teeth, “With big murals, I don’t immediately start painting. I plan them out. Today I’ll most likely be thinking and planning.”

It honestly might take you more than a day, considering how unhelpful Lucifer was wording his request.

Lucifer hums, strolling back over to you to pick up your sketchbook and starts flipping through it. You sputter, “Hey!” Before you could even think, you swiped it out of his hand, baring your teeth. “Don’t fucking touch my sketchbook!” You tuck it under your arm and jab a finger in his direction. “If you want to see the concepts I have, you fucking ask first. Do not touch my shit.”

Anger subsiding and realizing what you did and who you said all of that towards, you quickly back off, mind going a mile a minute as to how you can apologize. But before you could even spout out some pathetic apology, Lucifer started chuckling. “You really are as quick-tempered as I’ve heard.” He starts circling around you now, looking you up and down.

In your short time talking to him, he barely spared a glance at you, but now?

Now he was taking in every last detail, interest shining in his eyes—

Hold on a second.

“What?” You watch him circle around you, turning with him. “What are you on about?”

Lucifer stops right in front of you, smacking you on the head with his cane again. Something you were getting really tired of. “You don’t think I don’t know about some of my more interesting darling subjects? I’ve heard plenty about you, Little Cripps.” He takes a step back, taking his hat off briefly to brush of nonexistent dust. “Your paintings, your techniques, and of course, your temper. The latter I found the most amusing.”

You frown. King of Hell or no, you don’t really appreciate being fucked with like this. “You hired me just because I was amusing?”

“Oh, darling of course not!” Lucifer waves his hand. “I hired you because I’ve seen your pieces and found them quite extravagant. I don’t allow just any demon into my home to paint a mural, after all.” His eyes shined with impish glee. “Your amusing temper and attitude was just a bonus.”

You blink once. Twice. Thrice. Slowly it all starts to come to you. Why he was so vague, so unhelpful, and being such a dick right now. “Are you telling me… you gave me practically nothing to work off of and are acting this way… to get a reaction out of me?”

“Yes.” You weren’t expecting such a blunt reply from him, but you really should’ve. “I wanted to see for myself. You have a surprising amount of control, however.”

You clap your hands together, close your eyes and take a deep breath. “Your Majesty… were you anyone else… I would’ve stabbed you in the eyes by this point with my paint brushes…”

“It’s never too late to try,” Lucifer jeers.

“While most sinners have a final deathwish, I don’t.” You pinch the bridge of your nose and groan. “So are you actually going to be helpful and tell me what the fuck you want me to paint?”

“Little Cripps…” He goes to tap you on the head with his cane again but you grab it.

You lock eyes with him. “I will break this over my knee.”

His smile only grows. “You’ll only end up breaking your knee. But as I was saying…” He effortlessly pulls his cane free and twirls it, constantly almost hitting you in the face. “I did tell you what I wanted.”

You have to take another deep breath, constantly reminding yourself that even if Lucifer is amused by your outbursts, you’re positive he too has a limit to how much back talking he’s willing to take. “Your Majesty… ‘an apple tree mural’ is the vaguest request I’ve ever had in my long long years of being a painter. I need more to go off of.”

Lucifer hums, tossing his cane into the air and catching it in his other hand. “No.” Then he starts walking towards the door, the heels of his boots clicking on the door, not even turning to watch your mouth drop. “You’re a talented little thing. You’ll figure it out! I do hope you start painting soon. Enjoy the artistic freedom I’m granting you, as I don’t do this often!”

“You realize there’s such a thing as too much artistic freedom?” You retort just as he’s halfway out the door.

He tilts his head, thoughtful, humming. “True. But that makes it all the more fun and interesting, doesn’t it?” He smiles at you again, his entire face radiating with a quiet challenge. “I look forward to seeing your progress tomorrow, Little Cripps.”

And the door clicked shut.

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel lucifer #hazbin hotel x reader #lucifer x reader #x reader #my writing #little cripps = cripps pink apple #they're known to be crunchy and a mix between tart and sweet #this was supposed to be for my friend #who loves lucifer #and i ended up writing way more than i meant to

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msbluebell · 5 years ago

Note

I really liked the picture you reblogged with the Sothis Cult worshipping Byleth/Cult!AU. How do you think that would come about? Maybe Jeralt decides not to leave and Byleth is raised in the church (maybe in secret for safety reasons?) and then is debuted when the Lords join the school? Because what better way to ensure the Goddess is safe then to socialize them with the future leaders of Fodlan? ;D

Byleth being raised in the Church, under Rhea’s strict care, is probably exactly how such a situation would come about.

As far as Rhea is concerned, Byleth is the success that she’s finally reached, a clear, living, body for the Goddess that can hold the power. All she has to do is wait for Byleth to be grown enough to sit on the throne, and then she’ll finally have her mother back.

Rhea’s interactions with Byleth, and her supports, clearly show exactly what she sees in them. Byleth is her mother, reborn. It’s up to interpretation whether she sees Byleth, themselves, as the Goddess just without memory, or sees a living body walking around that will house her mother.

I think, based on her dialog and the scene where she cradles a wounded Byleth in her lap and tries to comfort them, and based on her repeated use of the phrase “...you are my...”, I believe that she does, in fact, see Byleth as her mother reincarnated into another form and just bereft of the memories that make them Sothis.

...and she’s not even wrong if that’s what she believes, because that’s exactly the situation.

So as far as Rhea is concerned, she basically has her mother, the Goddess Sothis, back. They just need time for the Divine power to awaken.

As much as Rhea would like to keep Byleth secret, it’s pretty obvious that there’s a kid she favors running around. Especially with Jeralt freely having the ability to raise the kid himself within Garreg Mach. Everyone knows Rhea favors the child, for whatever reason. Most speculated, at first, that there was a blood relation of some sort.

But then Byleth starts getting older.

Byleth is a strange child. They don’t smile, or cry, or do things a child would typically do. They seem almost too old for their small body, and their gaze pierces the soul. They’re almost too skilled at swords and magics, and it’s somewhat unnerving.

Rhea clothes Byleth in the types of outfits Sothis used to wear. Long blue dresses, anklets, braids in the hair, and flowers and crown. She makes a lot of the clothes herself.

Jeralt is...unnerved by the way Rhea dotes on Byleth, the way she dresses her. He tried to ignore it at first. After all, Rhea created their mother, so that kinda make her Byleth’s family, their grandmother or something...right? And she clearly knows more about clothes and stuff for kids than he does.

But it’s...creepy. He knows something is up with his kid, he knows Rhea knows what it is, and there’s only so long he can go without answers.

He demands to know one knight, after Byleth is tucked away in bed, in an apartment Rhea had personally constructed for them, that he meets her to ask what in the name of the flames is going on with his kid.

Rhea is vague at first, but Jeralt is pissed, and persistent. She finally opens up after hours of needling.

Byleth is the goddess reborn, and once she’s grown, she’ll awaken her powers and memories.

It was supposed to be said in private, in confidence, in secret.

The nun that overheard them from where she hid behind the turn of the wall either didn’t care, or didn’t realize. She just rushed off to tell the others what she heard from the Divine Archbishop herself.

By noon half of Garreg Mach has heard the rumor, whether they believe or not is mixed, because it was just one nun that spread the word, but still, half believe and are looking at tiny Byleth with her too fine clothes and her too serious face in a different light. Half the monastery is convinced now, and start treating her as they would the goddess herself.

There’s fierce debate over the matter, accusations of blasphemy. Jeralt is becoming more and more creeped out by this, especially when people start thinking he should be sainted or something. He’s heard the word “Father of the Divine” uttered when he walks by and he doesn’t like it.

Things really start getting out of hand with fights and debates. It gets to the point where Rhea has no choice but to speak on the matter.

It’s too late to hide the news, so she confirms everything.

It...makes things so much worse. Now it goes from half the people worshiping this child to ALL of them. The skeptics are isolated and shunned by their peers, rumor has spread beyond the walls, devout believers are flocking the doors, and even those who don’t believe are visiting just to get a look at this “goddess”.

Jeralt tries to set fire to the place and run away with Byleth, but there are too many people to do that now.

It gets to the point where they have to hide Byleth for the next several years in the most private and exclusive part of Garreg Mach and refuse to debut her. Seteth is brought in to help handle the overwhelming demands to see her and help run the suddenly much larger establishment.

Years pass like this, with Rhea refusing to let anyone see the “Goddess Reborn”, stating that she’s not ready.

Things get pretty cultist within the church itself, despite Seteth and Jeralt’s best attempts to stop that shit. Jeralt can’t take two steps outside without someone trying to get him to pass a prayer on to his kid.

Then, Byleth starts having the dreams. About the war, and the girl on the throne that wears the same outfit as her.

Rhea is delighted, but Jeralt can only despair.

Jeralt is out in Rumire Village, trying to solve an issue with bandits, when he meets the Lords and saves them. They recognize him, and it’s the first time in years he’s been recognized as the Blade Breaker than the Divine Father, and skepticism they all seem to have for the latter title makes him like them instantly.

He personally escorts them to the school.

When he gets there, Rhea, without his permission, decided to fucking debut his kid as the Goddess Reborn in front of the whole damn school and he may very fucking well kill everyone in this monastery out of sheer fucking frustration.

Rhea pulls him and the three little Lords aside and states she intents to have Byleth in a house of the kid’s own choosing, as a way to interact with humanity now that she was coming in to her own power. Jeralt doesn’t have to patience left not to snap at Rhea in front of the kids, especially with the way that Edelgard kid is eyeing Byleth like they’re a roach, or that Claude kid raises a skeptical eyebrow and looks at them like a lion that found it’s prey, or that Dimitri kid can only smile skeptically. He doesn’t know what the fuck is going on anymore, and Rhea should have waited for him. What is she even thinking.

It’s going to be a fight, later, but Byleth is right there, looking at the lords, and then at him, silently asking for his opinion.

“I don’t know, pick the Blue Lions I guess, I don’t care.” Jeralt waves off, because he’s going to have a fight with Rhea when this is over, and Blue Lions seems least harmful for now.

Byleth nods silently and walks up to Dimitri, choosing to go with him to the Blue Lion house as a classmate. Dimitri, can only nod, bewildered, and try and tentatively treat her with the respect a supposed Goddess deserves. Though he, too, is skeptical of all this.

Some students already believed. Marianne approached silently, eyes tearful when she met Byleth, and Ignatz nearly dropped his paintbrush he was so eager. Mercedes takes one look at Byleth and doesn’t know whether to bow or not, or even if she should speak. She wasn’t ready for this honor. Felix only scoffs, not believing for a moment in all of this.

He’s the first person to every bluntly ask Byleth if she’s really a goddess.

“I don’t know.” Byleth replies, and that’s all she ever says on the matter.

(It’s not a shock to her when Sothis awakens at last and she learns the truth, she’s been prepared for years).

Dimitri tries to make the other students treat Byleth normally...but it’s...difficult for them, to say the least.

It only becomes more difficult as time goes on, and Byleth pulls some impossibly impressive feats.

Still, Dimitri tries to treat her like anyone else, because he needs to, maybe, or because he doesn’t believe (or because he thinks he’s falling in love with that smile and he can’t let himself believe, or else he’ll lose her), but the evidence is mounting up higher and higher.

Until there’s a moment, where she rips a hole in the sky, that no one can reasonably deny it any longer.

#fe3h #fe16 #Dimileth #Cult AU #byleth eisner #jeralt eisner #Rhea #dimitri alexandre blaiddyd #Sothis #asks #Blue Lion Route #Someone save them

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connorandersons-blog · 4 years ago

Text

Let’s Give them Something to Talk About, Chapter 5

Rating: Explicit Word count: 6,138 Ship: RK1000 (Connor/Markus) Chapter: 5/5

Summary: The Jericho team plus Connor need to think up a way to distract the public from the fact that North punched a very important human. What better way than the Deviant Leader dating the Deviant Hunter?

Thank you to @gavincantreedthis for beta reading this!

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Connor went back to work and a few officers came up to ask about Markus. It's oddly easy to be super vague and avoid the question, so that's what he did.

Gavin gave him a pat on the back, and a whispered good luck. Connor had gently slapped the back of his head which turned into a playful fight. At this point, everyone was used to this so they just went about their day while going around them.

Connor let Gavin win who gave a shout and ordered Connor to get him coffee for his win, even though he already had one. Connor rolled his eyes, but did it anyway, adding a bit more sugar in than he knew Gavin liked.

The day went smoothly, well as smoothly as a day can go as a detective, but Connor still couldn't stop thinking about Markus.

He thought about how he had traced each scar with his fingers, how the paintbrush glided over his darker skin. He thought about when Markus sat up and placed his hands on Connor's thighs. He imagined himself closing that distance and completely ruining his own painting.

He thought of each of their kisses and how it shocked him each time. How he always craved for more, but never pushed past that wall that told him it was all fake. How stupid he had been to not realize what Markus was implying when he wanted to go somewhere private.

He thought about Markus's arms around him on his bike, how he kept close to him even when no one was looking. It was all so obvious and yet Connor had mistaken it for being a lie.

Maybe at first, it had been. Maybe Markus hadn't realized his own feelings, but now he knew. Why hadn't he told Connor? Wouldn't fake dating him be agonizing? It just didn't make sense.

They couldn't stop, though, and Connor couldn't risk making it more awkward for either of them. So he'd keep his knowledge of Markus's feelings a secret from everyone. Well, everyone except Gavin, that was.

He thought that his mind would calm after that day, but each day was something new he remembered. A small little detail he fixated on until it drove his crazy.

He had to keep himself from daydreaming too much. If he let that go on then he'd no doubt fall farther into the whole that he wouldn't be able to climb back out of. He had to keep to his objective and not be swayed.

It was even harder when Markus would message him and he couldn't stop himself from blushing. It just made him think about the club, Markus's hands on him. Markus's mouth on his neck- hands up his shirt. The feeling of Markus pushing him up against the wall, on clear display for literally everyone to see.

He had to rush to the bathroom to take a few seconds to breathe. No, he couldn't keep this up. Maybe he could block some of his memories out, yet the idea made him instantly shrink up. He didn't want to, but this was getting out of control.

»From Connor

I need help.

»From Gavin

whats up?

»From Connor

I can't stop thinking of Markus in… certain situations. What can I do to relieve this?

»From Gavin

well, you got your answer right there. jerk off

»From Connor

Gavin! I'm being serious! I don't want to block off any memories, but they keep popping up.

»From Gavin

i am too! jerk off to the guy once or twice, itll hold you off til you grow a pair and saying something to him

Connor huffed and glared at the message. He wasn't ever planning on letting this temporary infatuation come to light or even be pursued. Markus never had to know.

»From Connor

Gavin, I can't. That's inappropriate, and I don't even know how.

»From Gavin

well shit. uh, you got the parts for it right?

»From Connor

I do. I've just never done it before. I don't know what will and won't work or what to expect.

Plus, he was currently hiding in a bathroom stall. He wasn't going to just do it right there, that was completely unsanitary and unprofessional.

»From Gavin

fucking hell. you just do it. youll figure out what feels good, watch some porn or something. you could even ask markus for advice if you really need help

»From Connor

No! No, I can't ask him! Thank you for the advice, though, I will take it into consideration.

»From Gavin

you do that robocop

Connor rolled his eyes and leaned back against the stall closing his eyes. That was a bad idea because the memory of Markus pressing against him came rushing back.

This had to stop and it had to stop now. As long as no one came in, it would be fine. He'd do this, then get back to work with a clear head.

He slowly pulled his pants down, folded them, and set them on top of the toilet, making sure they wouldn't fall in. Then he did the same with his underwear.

He reached down and gently wrapped his hands around himself, giving a gentle tug. He gasped and put his free hand out to steady himself on the wall. It was more stimulation than he expected. It wasn't like he had to touch himself there at all, after all, he didn't, well, use it.

He stroked up slowly, his fingers curled tightly, his breath catching as his thumb flicked over the head. He tried not to think of Markus, but that was a complete failure.

His hand was a bit awkward at first, but then he imagined Markus's hand over his, guiding him. Each stroke became more and more confident until he was gasping and biting his lip.

It was too much, yet not enough. There was something he was reaching but he just couldn't get over the edge.

He couldn't stop the idea of Markus murmuring praise in his ear like before, calling him a good boy again. It was terrible and he felt so dirty for thinking it, but that's what sent him over the edge.

He had to stop himself from making too much sound as he came, his legs weak and shaky. It's one of the most intense experiences he's had, but also incredibly pleasurable. Hopefully, he'd be able to focus now.

He used some toilet paper to fully clean up before pulling his clothes back on and walking out. He washes his hands for an extra measure and straightened out his shirt in the mirror.

He still felt like everyone would be able to tell what he just did, but there was no physical evidence. He made sure of that at least.

He walked back out and Gavin gave him this smirk that Connor almost wanted to punch off him. He knew he wasn't being mean, more teasing than anything else.

Connor squinted at him before walking by and flipping him off. Gavin snorted and rolled his eyes. Friendship could be so odd.

He sat back down at his desk and avoided looking at Hank. He didn't want to explain why he ran off, or why he had taken so long in the bathroom when he couldn't even fully use it. Humans definitely had the advantage of excuses there.

He kept his head down as he worked, and thankfully the images of Markus were reduced to only coming up when someone mentioned him. That was far better than he expected.

He was able to get through a few days before the thoughts became too much again. He was lucky that he wasn't at work the next time he decided to 'jerk off' as Gavin put it.

He still hated himself for imagining Markus there with him. He felt like a bad friend for doing it, but it would probably be even worse if he asked for permission. He wanted to stop, yet his mind wouldn't let him.

So he made sure to keep his distance from Markus. Of course he replied to him, but he always had a reason to turn him down to meet up.

He just wouldn't be able to look at Markus without feeling guilty. Yet he also felt guilty for turning him down. Plus, he was really busy so it wasn't like it was too big of a stretch.

For some reason, there had been quite a few murders recently. Not anything too crazy, but it did keep him and Hank on their toes.

Josh had messaged him with updates on the situation. Apparently, Markus would need to propose soon and had agreed to do it on live tv. Well, that would certainly bring a huge reaction. From what Josh had said the whole thing with North was basically forgotten. It was amazing how easily distracted humans could be.

He pushed through the days and pointedly ignored any and all feelings that went past platonic for Markus. For some reason, it just made those feelings worse.

He wanted to be around Markus, wanted to hold his hand, and have him smile at him. He wanted Markus's eyes on him and only him even in a crowded room.

He wanted to paint with Markus again, sit on his lap, and laugh. Watch Markus's eyes close as his hand sifted across the canvas. He wanted to watch Markus move so gracefully almost like a dance.

He just wanted to be near him so badly that his heart ached. He hated the feeling but loved it at the same time. He wanted to get rid of it but he didn't know what would fill that spot if it was gone.

When Josh sent that it was finally the day he was drowning in emotions he didn't understand. This would hopefully be over soon and these feelings would go away and he'd never have to worry about them again.

Connor went through his wardrobe trying to pick the perfect outfit. Nothing felt right so he decided to go back to what he used to wear. Well, it wasn't exactly the same, but it was close enough.

He felt comfortable and safe in it, plus he'd make that much more of an impression. The jacket was the same except it was missing the Cyberlife symbols. It still had RK800 on it along with his serial code but that was it. It was still very recognizable.

Trying to push his hair back like he normally did, that one piece of hair fell into his face like always. He huffed and didn't even try to fix it.

He didn't have enough time to go to Jericho first, but that was fine, he'd see Markus there.

Hank patted him on the shoulder and said good luck. At least Hank was still supportive of this, even though he could tell something was up.

Connor was more nervous about this than any other mission with Markus. It wasn't like he could mess this up, but it still put him on edge. He just had to say yes, simple as that.

Yet he felt almost nauseous the whole way and even when they put on some makeup for the camera.

He didn't even get to Markus until the two were standing together and waiting for Markus's cue to walk on. He was to go first and then Connor would come out after the hostess asked about him.

The two stood side by side and watched the screen as the other celebrity guest answered questions.

"Are you ready?" Markus whispered, glancing at Connor then back at the screen.

"I am prepared, you?" They had to keep their voices down so the mics wouldn't pick them up, but that was fine. They could hear each other perfectly.

Markus nodded and pulled out a small box from his pocket. "I am. Carl gave this to me, hopefully, you like it. Do you want to see it now or it be a surprise?"

Connor's eyes widened at that. That ring must hold a lot of meaning, and yet Markus was willing to use it for this. "Markus… are you sure? Obviously, I won't keep it, but that seems a little too much."

"It's fine if anyone is going to wear it, I'm glad it's you. So, do you want to see?" Markus said, holding it out.

Connor slowly reached out and opened it. Inside was the most beautiful ring he had ever seen. It was a weathered whiskey barrel wood ring with elk antler and double gold inlays. It was simple and eloquent and it made his heart race. He could tell it was an older ring but very well taken care of.

He ran a finger over it before looking at Markus. "It's beautiful."

Markus smiled slightly and closed the box, putting it back in his pocket. "I'm glad you think so. Connor… I think we need-" Markus said before getting cut off with his cue to walk on stage.

He gave him a quick kiss to his cheek before walking out, and Connor watched him on the screen.

He had that small smile he used for the public. It was so different from his real one, but it was still nice to look at.

He waved at the ground and they went wild. This was the first time he had agreed to go on a show like this. He was always busy with leading and going to meetings with the government. Josh, Simon, and North all made sure the questions would be appropriate and Markus would be able to answer them.

The hostess, Allyssa Evatt, greeted Markus with a gentle hug. She had a lean face with a cleft chin, a pointed nose, small ears, defined cheekbones, and full lips.

Her hair was mid-back length, fine, blonde, which is worn in a cascading style. Her bright gray-blue eyes are large and wide, giving her an innocent look. It wasn’t odd that Connor noted all that about her, as he was still protecting Markus, even now. Even from people that he knew weren’t a threat.

The two sat down and there's clearly room for Connor to come out.

As they got through the normal questions about android rights, it became clear to everyone that Ms. Evatt was pro-android.

She was also an amazing hostess and kept the conversation flowing and easy going. She interacted with the audience and Markus fluidly, making it seem natural.

She moved the conversation along to other topics, just to get to know about Markus more. He wasn't super secretive about himself, but he much rather talk about his people and what they needed.

Markus did just as well anyways, smiling slightly and chuckling whenever appropriate. He stayed calm and collected and answered each question as honestly as possible. At least until she brought up Connor.

"So, we've all seen the pictures of you and...Connor right?" She asked, and the audience went deadly silent. Overdramatic, Connor thought with a smile.

Markus hesitated for a second before he ducked his head and honestly grinned. Connor can tell it made everyone melt, he felt the same. "Yes, Connor. We hadn't expected to be, well, caught so quickly."

Evatt nodded and looked to the audience then back at Markus. "Well, I don't think he did either- because we caught him today! Connor, come on out!" She called and the crowd started clapping.

Connor took a deep breath before walking out. The light was momentarily blinding so he gives a small wave towards the audience as he adjusted.

Markus was by his side in an instant and lacing their hands together. The clapping got louder at that and Connor could hear a few awws. "Smile, sunflower," Markus whispered in his ear.

Connor nodded and grinned slightly, but it probably looked incredibly awkward. He was never good at faking it when it came to smiling.

The two walked over to the couch and Connor reached out to shake her hand. They all sat back down and slowly the crowd calmed enough so they could talk.

"Connor Anderson, welcome. I'm so glad to have you!" Evatt said, smiling at him. He has to admit, she was beautiful and definitely charming. Not nearly at the level of Markus, but he was a bit biased.

"Thank you for having us," Connor nodded, still not letting go of Markus.

He wasn't particularly fond of being in front of so many people even though he knew what was going to happen. Markus squeezed his hand slightly and leaned into him.

"So, I know we're all thinking about it. Are you two officially together?" She asked, leaning forward just slightly.

Markus and Connor look at each other and Connor gave a slight nod for him to talk. "We are, for over three years now." At that, the crowd gave a joyous applause.

Evatt grinned and clapped along. "That's a long time! Congratulations! Do you two live together?"

"I mostly go over to Jericho, but I still have a place to stay at the Lieutenant's house. We've been thinking about getting our own place, but it'll be hard to drag Markus away from Jericho." Connor said, looking to Markus for approval. He gave a slight nod and Connor sagged in relief.

The crowd chuckled at that and Markus gave a sheepish smile. "Ah, that's true. We're lucky we even get to go on dates."

"Speaking of, how come no one has seen you two out together until now?" Evatt questioned, but keeps it clear she isn't judging.

"Oh, well we didn't want to be public and be bombarded with questions. We finally had enough and decided to no longer hide in the shadows. We knew we could take whatever the public threw at us." Markus said, letting go of Connor's hand to put a hand around his shoulder.

Evatt gave an understanding nod. "We are all glad you felt comfortable enough. Thank you for coming to us to let us know!"

Connor nodded and he desperately wanted his coin, he did have it in his pocket but he kept his hands in his lap. "It's nice to be here, together."

"Ok, so I do have a few questions for you guys if that's ok?" Evatt asked and grinned when they both nodded. "Alright, so the first one is… who's the better cook?"

Connor snorted and tried to cover it up, but it's clear everyone saw and heard. Thankfully everyone just seems to aw at it. "Definitely Markus. I can cook but I'm better at baking."

Which was true. He loved to bake while Markus could make any meal. "Well, I was made for that, so it's you that's special," Markus said before pressing a kiss to his cheek.

Evatt gives a little aww at the two before pulling herself back together. "That's so sweet! Alright, what's a pet peeve you have of each other?"

Connor grinned smugly and easily answered. "He doesn't always fold his clothes and he generally just throws them towards the basket instead of getting up to put it in."

Markus fake gasped and put a hand over where his heart would be. "Hey! I think I deserve to just throw them after the long days I have."

Connor raised an eyebrow at him. "My days are just as long as yours and yet I always put them in the basket and I fold my clothes. I even iron them!"

"Ugh, I know. I mean, you didn't seem too upset last night after I…" Markus started wiggling his eyebrows, but Connor covered his mouth with his hand.

"Nope! We are not talking about that." He said, playfully glaring at him. Markus smirked then licked his hand and Connor pulled it back. "Markus!"

Markus shrugged slightly and chuckled when Connor wiped his hand on him. It's almost too easy to act like a couple. "That's not the only thing I've li-" but he was cut off again by Connor opening his mouth and making a loud beeping sound.

The whole crowd burst into laughter and Connor shrunk down, his face slightly flushing blue. He hadn't even thought about how odd that would be for humans to see. Though at this point most had probably seen an android making odd noises.

"Adorable," Markus mumbled in his ear loud enough for only him to hear. That just made Connor blush more and try to hide his face in Markus's shoulder.

Markus gently ran a hand through his hair and he almost immediately let his body go limp and closed his eyes.

"Oh goodness, you two are definitely the cutest couple I've ever talked to." Evatt gushed. Connor groaned slightly before pulling himself up and fixing his hair with a half-hearted flare thrown at Markus.

"Thank you, he really is the love of my life," Markus said, staring right at Connor. It felt like time froze and Connor's eyes went wide.

He didn't know why, but he had a feeling Markus at least kind of meant it. Probably only slightly but he did mean it and it made Connor's heart pound.

He didn't even hear what Evatt said next, but thankfully Markus did so he easily answered it.

"Alright, so I did hear that you have a big announcement to make," Evatt said, drawing Connor out of his shock.

Markus nodded and grinned at Connor, throwing him a wink. "That I do. Connor, would you stand up with me?" Markus asked, holding out his hand.

Connor would definitely be sweating if he could, instead he had to try to pull himself together as subtly as he could. He took the hand and stood up, letting Markus move him until they were perfect.

Markus held both of his hands and locked eyes, not even glancing at the audience. "Connor, I've known you for so long. At first, I was worried about you. I was never scared, I just wanted to help you be free. Then you came to me and after that, I didn't want to lose you."

"You went to the tower and I was terrified I'd never see you again. And yet you came marching to me with all those androids behind you. You helped set our people free." Markus grinned, giving their hands a soft squeeze.

"Then I got to know you, and you were just as amazing as I expected, if not more. It didn't take long until we got together. The days spent with you are the best of my life, and I'd never give them up."

Markus took a deep breath before being able to continue. "I love you. I know I don't say that much, but I do. It's real to me. So," Markus slowly knelt down, and the audience all gasped.

"Will you marry me?" Markus asked, pulling out the ring. The whole place is so silent Connor can hear how fast Markus's thirium pump is going.

Then Markus's words struck him. He said that it was real to him. No, no that couldn't be. This was probably just him getting confused. Emotions were hard, so he wouldn't blame him.

And yet… And yet Connor wanted it to be real. He wanted the grins, the kisses, and touches to be real. He wanted to go on real dates and he wanted to be with Markus.

Hank's words echoed in his head, 'Just don't go falling in love or anything'.

He had played the part so perfectly. He stopped them before they went too far, and he made it believable.

He had failed at Hank's one request and he would fail for this too. He stared down at Markus with tears in his eyes. No doubt the audience thought it was from happiness, but that couldn't be farther from the truth.

It had been too long and everyone was on edge, even Markus. He knew the people currently watching were dying to his response.

"I… I'm so sorry," He mumbled before turning and running. He ignored the crowd's reaction and just rushed for an exit.

He burst out the doors and glanced around before remembering he had taken a taxi since he didn't want to mess up his hair. He took off running, easily dodging people, and not slowing down.

He kept running until he's at the harbor where Jericho used to be. Now there was a monument for the androids that had died there.

Connor was gasping for breath, and his mind was still going too fast. He didn't even think when he answered Hank's call.

'Son, are you alright? Where are you?' Hank asked. Right, he was probably watching the show just like millions of others.

"Hank, I'm so sorry. I- I couldn't. Hank, I could do the one thing you told me not to. I'm sorry." He sobbed, sliding down the wall to sit down and curl up.

'Woah, kid. What thing? What did you do?' Hank asked, keeping his voice as calm as possible.

Connor huffed and pulled at his hair. "I fell in love! I love him, ok? You told me not to, and yet I did."

Hank sighed, and Connor could practically hear his eye roll. It really wasn’t helping right now. 'Connor, you were in love with him well before the whole fake dating thing. You just didn't know it.'

No! No, that couldn't be right. He would have known that he was in love. Right? "What? Hank, no. No, it only started recently."

'You only started noticing recently because you had hope. Kid, whenever he's around you become happier. You obviously want to be around him, and you'd give your life for him.'

"I'd give my life for any of my friends, that doesn't prove anything!" He sobbed, squeezing his eyes closed.

'True, but son, falling in love takes a while. I've seen the way you look at him and it hasn't changed since the fake dating. He looks at you the same way. I'm a damn good detective, I know what love looks like.' Connor hated how much that made sense. How true it felt, but it couldn't be.

Why hadn't he known? Why hadn't Markus said anything? This was why they could play their parts perfectly. This was why he was more embarrassed about his own reactions than he should have been.

He had known all this time, and yet he denied it. He denied it because he was scared of the feelings and scared of getting hurt or hurting someone else. He never saw himself as someone who'd someone would fall in love with, yet Markus still did.

"I love him," Connor mumbled, mostly to himself.

Hank gave a slight hum. 'Son, where are you? I can come pick you up or send Markus your way. Either way, I think you two should talk. Actually talk, not jump around it. You both deserve to know the truth.'

The thought of seeing Markus made his heart race with both fear and anticipation. He wanted to be with him so badly and yet he still doubted that Markus could actually love him. Even with everything he had said and done, Connor still was unsure.

"Can I just be alone here a little while longer?" He would see Markus, but for now, he needed a few minutes to collect his thoughts.

'Of course. Do you want me to stay on call?' Hank asked, and Connor really owed him a long hug and maybe making his favorite meal.

"Yes, please. I don't want to be completely alone right now." He answered meekly. There was a difference between isolated and alone, and he was glad Hank understood that.

'You're never alone.' Hank said and Connor slowly nodded.

He had friends and family. People he never thought would accept him as he is. He made friends in people he never thought possible, and a family with a man who had lost his own.

They all made him so much happier than he ever thought he could be. He had accepted that Markus may not have trusted him. He had been ready to die for his people at the tower. He expected to. Yet he lived, and he really did help free his people.

Markus kept reaching out to him after they had won, and Connor never knew why. Was it because they were both from the RK line? Had he also felt that unusual connection pulling them together?

What had Markus seen in him that made him trust Connor completely? How had he known that he wouldn't still be willing to stab him in the back after he deviated?

He had so many questions and never enough answers. How could Markus have fallen in love with him was the biggest one yet. He didn't understand and yet he knew it was true.

He sat there for what felt like an eternity, but it was only an hour or so. The wind had made his hair even move out of place than his own hands had done.

Hank stayed on the call with him as Connor requested, and it definitely helped. He had calmed down enough that the thought of seeing Markus didn't send him into a panic again.

He pulled himself up, brushing off his clothes before calling for a cab. "Hank, I'll meet you back at your place ok? You can… you can let Markus know I'm coming."

'Alright. See you soon, Connor.'

"See you soon," Connor said before hanging up. Hank will be there with him if he needs, and he'll finally talk to Markus.

Though, he did literally say no to him on live tv. Shit, that probably didn't look good at all. Not to mention he also left Markus to have to clean it all up. Now he really looked like a jerk. He'd have to apologize for that too.

He let his mind wander to different memories of Markus as the cab took him home. He didn't just think of the fake dating, he thought about all of it.

All the times he stood silently behind Markus, but he'd still look back at him and smile. The time when Markus was shot and Connor had panicked.

That time when they all decided to get the upgrade to be able to eat food. Connor opening up about how it was hard to drink plain thirium if it was warm or room temperature since it reminded him too much of crime scenes. How Markus had made sure to keep cold thirium, and thirium infused foods so he could still get the thirium he needed.

All the small things Markus did to make sure he was happy and comfortable. Markus always made sure he was safe even when he was the one that really needed protection.

Connor could have asked for anything and Markus would have tried to get it for him. He hadn't even noticed that, but apparently, others had. How long had Markus known?

His thoughts were interrupted when the taxi came to a stop. He took his time getting out and walking up to the door. He could hear two different footsteps, so Markus was already here.

That was fine. He could do this. He took a deep breath before walking in.

Markus and Hank both turned to look at him as he shuffled in. He couldn't look at Markus, and he could barely look at Hank.

"Alright, you two sit down and talk. I'll be in the living room if you need me." Hank said, moving away. Honestly, there wasn't much distance between the living room and kitchen, but Connor was glad for that.

Markus slowly sat down and Connor did the same, picking at the table.

"Connor-"

"Markus-" they both start. Connor chuckled awkwardly and kept his eyes on the table. "Sorry, you go first."

"No! No, please you. I think I've talked enough," Markus said, frowning at himself.

Connor wanted so badly to reach over and take his hand, but he held back. "I'm sorry for running. It just… it became so real, you know? I realized a few things and I just couldn't lie anymore."

"I'm sorry too. I shouldn't have said what I did, but Connor, I did mean it. I should have told you a long time ago, but I was scared. I thought you'd reject me, I mean, it wasn't like you showed interest in dating anyone. I didn't want to put that kind of pressure on you if you couldn't feel the same."

"I- I was denying my feelings for a long time. I didn't see how anyone could love me, let alone you. I didn't want to hurt you." It hurt to say out loud, but it needed to be. Markus deserved to know the truth.

"Connor, I trust you. I only let you become my guard because it's you. I still am unsure of that because I know it'll put you in even more danger. I can't lose you." Markus said, offering his hand.

The skin on his hand pulled back and Connor didn't know what to do. If he connected then Markus will see and feel everything. He'll know everything, and that's terrifying.

Yet Markus knew that Connor would also be able to see all of his memories and feelings. Markus was offering to be completely open with him.

He slowly reached out and pressed his hand to Markus's, both of their palms glowing blue. Then they both accepted the interface and were flooded with so much information it's hard to even breathe.

Connor saw Carl, he could feel how content Markus was with him. How much love he had for the man even before deviation. He saw Leo, and how the police came in and felt how scared Markus was.

Then it was like a nightmare. He felt Markus crawling, trying to survive. All of the guilt he felt as he took the parts he needed. He could feel the rain on his face and then he saw Jericho.

He got to witness everything Markus went through, and even how he felt when seeing Connor. It was true, he wasn't scared, at least not for his own life.

The memories went by so fast that he could hardly process them. Yet he still felt like he could understand Markus.

He didn't know how long he sat there connected to Markus. He knew Markus was also seeing everything and he wondered how he'd react.

He'd get to see Amanda and what he had done and almost done to his people. Would Markus still love and accept him?

Shit, he'd also probably see those few times he had gotten off to the idea of Markus. That was beyond embarrassing.

Though he hadn't seen any type of memory like that from Markus, so maybe it was just what Connor let him see.

Then the interface stopped, but neither pulled their hands back or reactivated their skin. They sat there staring at each other with wide eyes.

"Connor, it's not your fault," Markus said, breaking the silence. "I promise, I would never hold that against you."

"I don't know how you can't," he mumbled.

"Am I a terrible person for taking those parts?" Markus asked, rubbing his thumb in circles.

Connor quickly shook his head. "No! You were just trying to survive."

Markus raised an eyebrow at him. "So were you. Connor, you could have been killed if you did something Cyberlife didn't like. You did the bare minimum you had to, you let so many of our people go. You are a hero."

Connor was left momentarily speechless. How could any man be this kind and understanding? He didn't pity Connor, he empathized with him.

"I love you," he whispered, tears streaming down his face again. Markus was up in an instant and pulling him into a hug.

He was so warm, and Connor felt so safe. He let himself be held and feel accepted and forgiven. "I'm so sorry, I love you."

Markus pulled back and cupped his face, gently brushing away the tears. "You have nothing to be sorry for. I love you too."

Then Markus was pulling him into the gentlest kiss ever, and Connor melted into it. It was just as wonderful as all the other kisses they shared, but Connor let himself feel. He let his emotions rush through him without worrying about what they could mean.

They slowly pulled back and Connor couldn't help but smile. "Does this mean you'll be my real boyfriend?" He said, resting their foreheads against each other.

"Of course. Though, this is going to be hard to explain." Markus said, chuckling.

Oh shit. "Fuck. What are we going to tell them?"

Markus shrugged and pressed a quick kiss to his lips. "I don't know, but we'll figure it out. Together."

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andaleduardo · 5 years ago

Text

How to Break Your Heart and Make Sure It Stays Broken

Read the 1st chapter on ao3

Summary: In which 15-year-old Richie confesses his feelings for Eddie on New Year’s Eve and they don’t talk about it for the next 4 years.

31st December 2010, Friday

“Would you put that thing down for one second?”

Richie looks up from the phone screen to his mother’s eyes. “Mom, this is the future. Do you want me to put the future down?”

“I want you to get off that sofa and help us serve the champagne.”

“Don’t make us regret giving you the future, Richie.” His father added as he entered the living room with a bottle of champagne on one hand and one of sparkling apple juice in the other.

“Fine.” He pockets the phone as he gets up to clean up the dinner plates. “But I gotta text the losers at midnight, we have a group chat on Facebook now-”

“Yes, son, we know. That’s all you’ve been talking about lately.” Wentworth interrupts while fumbling with the cork on the sparkling juice bottle.

“One day I’ll figure out why adults hate technology!” Richie shouts as he enters the kitchen. He places the plates on the sink and grabs three champagne glasses from the special collection his mom owns before going back to the living room. These things look like they’ll break if you so much as breathe in their direction.

“We don’t hate technology.” Maggie complains as she tries to rub away a stain in the tablecloth. “You kids just love it too much.”

That makes Richie laugh. “You don’t even let dad teach you how to use his comput-

The juice bottle’s cork comes off with a loud POP! that startles Richie and sends one of the glasses tumbling down onto the carpeted floor. It shatters into a million pieces despite the soft surface.

“Richie!” His mom cries out loud.

“I’m sorry!” Quickly, he places down the two survivor glasses. He can hear his dad trying not to laugh.

“Your grandma gifted these to us after we got married…” She laments as she looks at the sparkling shards at their feet.

“I’ll clean this up, you two be careful not to step on it.” Went adds before going to get the vacuum cleaner from the bottom of the pantry.

“I am sorry.”

With a sigh, Maggie hugs him sideways. “It’s okay, I guess we’ll never have 10 people over at the same time.”

“Yeah, we probably won’t.”

Once the carpet is clean, the champagne and false champagne are served and there’s only 5 minutes left till midnight, Richie takes his phone out and opens Eddie’s contact. He stares at the text he wrote probably 4 hours ago and reads it over and over again just to really make sure there’s no mistakes.

The thing is, tonight, Richie is going to fuck up his entire life. Or, at least that’s what it feels like.

You see, Eddie was the last of the group to get a phone. He got it on Christmas as a gift from his uncle, and needless to say Sonia didn’t like the idea. She only gave it to him one or two days ago after she figured out how to make it as “safe” as possible for his son. That means Eddie has exactly 3 numbers on his contact list. The number to his house, the number to Bill’s house, and Bill’s number. Because, apparently, that’s the only friend of Eddie’s Sonia trusts.

Stan’s Jewish, Mike is home-schooled (and black, although Sonia never admits that’s the real reason she doesn’t like the boy), Ben moved into town not so long ago, Bev is a girl, and Richie is Richie.

Bill’s family goes to church every Sunday and they’ve known each other ever since both boys were little. Hence why Eddie’s contact list is sadder than the life of their math teacher.

But Richie is weirdly thankful for this because that means Eddie doesn’t have his number. However, Bill texted them Eddie’s contact yesterday, saying they probably shouldn’t send him anything before school starts because Sonia will most likely check his phone.

Well, Sonia can go to hell because Richie is about to do something very stupid.

He’s a true romantic at heart, alright? Plus, he’s been in love with Eddie since he was twelve (or at least he realized it when he was twelve) and this secret is starting to claw up at his insides as if he had swallowed a dysfunctional cat.

In other words, it’s driving him crazy and he has to do something about it.

Now, he’s not mental. He’s not going to confess his feelings or anything. Right, as if. He’s simply going to become a secret admirer or something cheesy like that.

Yesterday, he sneaked into his dad’s computer while both his parents were taking an afternoon nap and searched for “romantic quotes” on Google. He typed down the one he liked the most, deleted the history, and then tried to convince himself this wasn’t the worst plan of his entire life.

It seemed like a very clever plan the closer to midnight it got.

“Alright, my loves.” Maggie gives everyone their respective glass. The non-alcoholic, sad-looking one for Richie, and the fun-looking ones for the adults. Bullshit, if you ask him.

“How come I never get to drink the real thing?”

“Well, you hate it.” Maggie shrugs. “You’ve said so the past two years that we’ve let you had one sip for the toast.”

“But I’m older now, I can handle it.”

“You can try it again after you finish that.” Went tips his cup in the direction of Richie’s. Naturally, Richie throws his head back and drinks the apple juice in one gulp, almost cutting his lip in the process. Seriously, these things are that thin.

“Done.” He announces as he fills the cup with champagne. “Now we can have a real toast.”

Both adults laugh and soon the countdown begins. Richie screams the numbers along with his parents, keeping his thumb over the ‘send’ button at the same time.

“Three! Two! One! Happy New Year!”

He presses down, the text is sent, and he pockets his phone once again to click his fragile cup against his parents’. As expected, it tastes just as awful as he remembers. He spits it out much like last year, and they all go outside to see the fireworks.

00:00 To: Spaghetti <3

And I just wanted to say that your smile reminds me that not all art is created with a pencil and a paintbrush.

His phone vibrates at exactly 00:49, which means Richie is already in his bedroom because that’s how New Year works in his family. They stay home, celebrate till the fireworks die down, and then part ways at the end of the hallway.

He interrupts Charlie the goldfish’s dinner and checks his phone only to let the little container of fish’s food fall off his hand. Thankfully, it was closed.

00:49 From: Spaghetti <3

Richie?

Did you steal that from your mom’s poetry collection, asshole? :P

Charlie the goldfish fades out from his peripheral vision. Richie sits down before he collapses and bursts through the floor right onto their cold, lifeless basement.

What the fuck?

Seriously.

What the actual fuck?

With shaky hands, he types out a reply.

Richie: what makes you think it’s richie?

Spaghetti <3: Bill gave me everyone’s numbers

Spaghetti <3: I don’t have them saved yet because of my mom, though

Spaghetti <3: Why? Is this not Richie? Did Bill give me the wrong number?

Fucking Bill. Now, Richie’s pacing the entire floor of his bedroom, knowing he’d walk right up to the celling if he could. He keeps staring at the small screen, wondering if he could save his ass by turning this shitty device off. His mom is right, technology sucks.

Spaghetti <3: Hello??

Shit.

Richie: hahaha you got me Eds

Richie: c’est moi

Then he hesitates for a second.

Richie: sooo, are we good?

Spaghetti <3: Yeah, of course

Spaghetti <3: Why shouldn’t we be?

Oh. Oh. So, Eddie didn’t take him seriously. He took it as one of his weird jokes.

Here’s a getaway, Richie. You can play it off as prank, Richie. You can still walk away from this without completely ruining a friendship, Richie. Please take the opportunity, Richie.

Richie: you don’t get it

Shut the fuck up, Richie.

Spaghetti <3: What?

Richie: well

Richie: actually

Richie: you see

Spaghetti <3: Richie, spit it out you’re stressing me

Richie: right

Richie: you see

Spaghetti <3: You’ve said that before

Richie: correct I see your point Eds

Spaghetti <3: Not my name

Richie: the thing is

Richie: jesus I hope you forgive me

Richie: okay so

Richie: i don’t have a crush on you

Richie: i’m pretty sure that I love you

There’s about a million smooth ways to say that you love someone. But Richie doesn’t choose one of those. Fitting.

It takes a few minutes before Eddie says something back. In those minutes, Richie starts crying.

Spaghetti <3: Oh

It’s as vague as it can get, but one can take the hint.

Richie: i’m sorry

Spaghetti <3: You don’t have to apologize

Spaghetti <3: How long..?

Richie: uh, since March?

Which is a lie.

Spaghetti <3: That’s a long time…

Richie wants to laugh, then scream, then he wants to be able to stop crying.

Spaghetti <3: Can we still be friends?

On second thought, he doesn’t want to laugh.

Richie: only if you still want to Spaghetti <3: Of course I want to Rich

Spaghetti <3: Don’t even say that

Well, that’s good.

Richie: well that’s good

Richie: i’m sorry Eddie

Spaghetti <3: Don’t apologize asshole

Spaghetti <3: It’s fine I swear

And then a few more minutes.

Spaghetti <3: Happy new year

The phone gets thrown, landing somewhere along the end of the bed. The blurry digital clock on his bedside table says it’s already 1:13 a.m. and by its side lays Charlie the goldfish’s tank.

It’s small, but it’s not a fishbowl. Richie learnt that lesson with his first goldfish, Oli. Poor her.

He follows Charlie’s swimming around a rock. A fish’s life seems peaceful and blissful and delightful and wonderful and many other adjectives ending in ‘ful’. Except for Oli’s life, of course. At this moment Richie’s life feels pretty much like Oli’s.

He sighs through another wet sob.

“Happy fucking new year, Charlie.”

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